


Outlast Kinktober 2016

by philos_manthanein



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Kinks, Kinktober 2016, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-18 23:12:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 31
Words: 44,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8179342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philos_manthanein/pseuds/philos_manthanein
Summary: All of my dirty Kinktober fics for Outlast. All chapter titles feature the kink and pairing.  Tags will be updated accordingly. Enjoy, you filthy animals.





	1. Spanking (Jeremy/Waylon)

Waylon shifts in his seat. Waiting. Waiting. Listening to the steady tick of a ridiculously expensive clock on the wall. This private office is full of overpriced knick-knacks that imply their owner is some globetrotting highly-cultured exec. He knows better; Jeremy Blaire imports it all. He's too busy a man to actually enjoy his luxuries.

This is taking forever. Blaire wanted him here nearly an hour ago and the guy hasn't even shown up himself. It's rude, that's what it is. Waylon is seconds away from leaving, performance review be damned. Besides, he already knows what his boss is _really_ after.

Waylon's about to stand when the door finally creaks open and in he walks, the asshole. Talking on his phone to some other corporate goon, babbling off numbers and jargon Waylon can't even pretend to be interested in. He leans on the arm rest, chin resting in his palm. So bored he almost misses the way Blaire looks at him. How Blaire leans against his desk in front of him, still on the phone.

Blaire is still talking when he reaches out to touch Waylon's head, threading his fingers through his hair. Waylon huffs and rolls his eyes, feigning that he's annoyed Blaire is mussing his hairstyle, even as a hot rush waterfalls through his chest and stomach. Blaire's grip tightens a little, yanking Waylon's head back just enough to expose his throat.

“Yeah, sure. We can do that.” Blaire says so absurdly normal to whoever is on the phone.

So benign as he steps forward and leans down. He bites and sucks hard at Waylon's throat, making his mouth go dry and his skin break out in goosebumps. Damn it, the last marks he left had just healed up too...

Blaire pulls back just enough to say something to whoever he's talking to. The vibration of his voice, the brush of his lips against Waylon's skin with every word, sends a deep pang of heat exactly where Blaire wants it to go. The bastard.

The second Blaire is off the phone Waylon has his hands on him, guiding his mouth away from his neck and to his own waiting lips. Blaire always tastes like expensive coffee and Waylon would be lying if he said he wasn't addicted to it by now. A chuckle sounds from the back of Blaire's throat. He pulls away far too soon for Waylon's liking.

“Greedy.” Blaire says, leaning back against the desk again.

“Pot meet kettle much?” Waylon replies, pursing his lips and trying not to smile though he does anyway.

He's become far more arrogant, more sarcastic, more vulgar (in all ways), since he and Blaire met. Something in the back of his mind tells him he should be worried about that, but it's easy to push that thought away. It's easy to ignore when Blaire is standing there trying to act cool and in control when Waylon can see from the outline of his slacks he's already getting hard from just the kiss.

Waylon licks his bottom lip, then sucks it between his teeth, glancing upward to make sure Blaire sees. Blaire clears his throat and picks up some file to flip through. Waylon counts that as a point in his favor.

“Mr. Blaire.” Waylon smiles, tilting his head a little. “We both know why I'm really here.”

“Performance review?” Blaire smirks and taps the folder against Waylon's head.

“Such a good boss,” Waylon replies, sliding from his chair to his knees on the floor. “So attentive and mindful of his employees.”

“Hey.” Blaire's tone switches to warning.

Waylon ignores him. After all, how many times has Blaire fucked him over that very desk? This office is less a sanctuary and more an exhibition room at this point. Waylon's hands go eagerly to Blaire's belt buckle.

“ _Waylon._ ” Blaire's voice is darker now, hinting that Waylon is getting himself into a lot of trouble.

“ _Jeremy_...” Waylon coos back, popping open the buckle and staring right into Blaire's eyes as he does.

In a second Blaire has Waylon by the front of his cute graphic tee and Waylon makes a grumbling complaint about how the collar is gonna be all stretched out now. (Tomorrow morning there will be a delivery to his doorstop of a replacement, but he doesn't know this.) They're face-to-face now and Waylon is grinning and he feels himself getting hard.

It's almost embarrassing, how much he enjoys Blaire dominating him.

“Since when did you get so fucking cocky, huh?” Blaire growls into his ear, his freehand grabbing Waylon by the hip and yanking him forward, pressing their hips together.

“Hmm...” Waylon licks his lips again, hands resting on Blaire's arms. “When was my hire date again?”

That's a lie, he knows. Day-One Waylon wouldn't be caught dead doing the things he does now with Mr. Blaire. It's like the longer he's worked here, with that insatiable technology and equally sex-starved boss, the more he's become someone new. Unconstrained. Feral.

Yeah, that really _should_ be a problem. But it's not. Not while Blaire holds his waist tight with both hands and easily manipulates him, turning Waylon around and shoving him roughly over the desk. (Blaire doesn't ever admit it, but Waylon knows he keeps the surface clear just to make it easier to fuck him into it.)

“I think it's time for some corrective action, Mr. Park.” Blaire says, a hand sliding up under Waylon's shirt, fingers skirting up his spine.

Waylon lets out a small, breathy laugh. “What? You gonna spank me, Mr. Blaire?”

Waylon wriggles his hips a little, teasing. And it's really meant to be a joke, honest. But there's a lengthy pause where Waylon feels all the heat in his veins pool in his chest. Blaire's other hand is suddenly on his ass, rubbing roughly then squeezing tightly through his jeans. Waylon feels Blaire's weight suddenly on his back as the older man speaks so low and lustfully into his ear.

“Would you like me to?”

Waylon's next breath comes with a shiver. His skin is tingling just thinking about it. Not that he thinks about it for long. He arches his back just a bit, just enough to grind back against Blaire's lap, grinning when he feels Blaire's erect dick straining and pressing against him. Blaire uses the hand holding his ass to shove him roughly back into the desk.

“I'll take that as a _yes_.” Blaire chuckles and the vibration of his voice against Waylon's ear makes him bite his already pink and abused bottom lip again.

Blaire has Waylon out of his jeans and underwear so fast Waylon almost starts giggling. He can't tell which one of them is feeling more giddy about this. But he schools his excitement, getting into his role of the naughty little scrub of an employee he knows Blaire wants him to be.

Blaire's hand glides smoothly over his ass and Waylon feels his stomach fill with thousands of fluttering little butterflies in anticipation. Gosh, there must really be something wrong with him. He's already completely erect and aching to fuck something. Or get fucked. He really doesn't care which.

Finally, Blaire gives Waylon's ass one fast smack. Even though he was expecting it, Waylon gasps from the sting of it. As soon as it fades into a warm electric tingle, Blaire does it again, harder. It makes Waylon go all tense and flush, panting already. Another and Waylon keens for it. Each time Blaire's palm strikes his reddening flesh Waylon feels a hot wash of arousal flood through him.

God, he _really_ should feel ashamed, but all he wants is more.

“Ngh...” Waylon tries to say something intelligible, but Blaire smacks his ass again and makes him arch his back. He's writhing and wriggling, not away but pressing back, wanting...

“You're really into this...” Blaire muses, rubbing his hands over Waylon's pink and oversensitive rear.

“Mr. Blaire...” Waylon's heated breath makes a small round fog against the cool, polished desk. “Please...”

“Hm?” Blaire slides his hands away, the jerk.

Waylon swallows. His whole body feels warm, feverish. He goes to reach down and touch himself, to get some sort of relief to his dick, but Jeremy spanks him again. It's even harder this time and Waylon doesn't even try to hold back the sound it draws out of him.

“When'd you get to be so rebellious?” Jeremy asks and Waylon doesn't have the patience to reply. “You used to be so good.”

There's a soft metallic sound. It takes Waylon only a second to recognize it. The sound of Blaire removing his belt.

“Y-You...” Waylon's throat feels tight. He's so hot, such a mess of nerves and lust. “You could make me good again...”

“Now why would I want to do that?” Blaire laughs darkly, trailing the hard leather of his belt along the curve of Waylon's ass.

The first crack of the belt makes his fingers and toes curl. The sting rockets through his spine and Waylon can't help the choked sob-like sound that falls from his mouth. The swollen tip of his cock bumps against the side of Blaire's desk and he groans. When he relaxes again and settles back he leaves behind a thin string of clear precum.

Blaire strikes him twice more, each sending fire into his lungs and he swears he's going to pass out from the over-stimulation alone. He's shivering and feverish and if Blaire keeps this up he's going to lose his fucking mind.

But Blaire doesn't spank him again. He hears the belt clatter to the floor and Waylon whines for the loss of it. Blaire's hands are on him again, rubbing slow and gentle over his raw skin and somehow that's even worse.

One hand leaves Waylon's rear and reaches around to grab his cock and Jeremy barely strokes him twice before Waylon's already cumming. He's cursing into the crook of his sweat-salted arm, hiding his red face as he thrusts embarrassingly into Blaire's hand. When he's finally spent he goes all weak. Thank goodness the desk is there to support him, else he'd be laying on the floor in his shameful post-orgasmic fog.

Blaire takes a moment to actually clean him up because like _hell_ can Waylon's fried neurons process anything more than the warm electricity flowing through all his limbs right now. Waylon's not sure how much time passes. Eventually his pants are pulled back up (thanks Blaire) and he's gently stood up and turned back around (thanks again, Blaire).

He leans against Blaire, resting his warm face against Blaire's neck. Blaire makes a light, appreciative sound and guides Waylon forward. When Blaire goes to sit in the chair Waylon previously occupied, he pulls Waylon with him, letting the smaller man sit in his lap. Waylon snuggles in close, making a grateful hum as Blaire runs a hand gently over his back.

“You're still hard...” Waylon says, feeling Blaire's half-erect cock pressing against him through their clothing.

“Mm...” Blaire tilts his chin, just enough to press a surprisingly gentle kiss against Waylon's lips. “Who says your review is over?”

Waylon tenses for a second, feeling a warm buzz crawl into his throat. Then he laughs, running his hands up Blaire's neck and into his hair.

“You're such a terrible boss.”

 


	2. Dirty Talk (Miles/Waylon)

Miles has Waylon bent over a countertop in the kitchen. It's not the most romantic morning of lovemaking, but Miles has never really been that romantic to begin with. Hey, at least he let Waylon turn the stove off so his pancakes wouldn't burn. He should really count himself lucky to have such a _thoughtful and considerate_ boyfriend.

They're still nearly half clothed in their pajamas, that's how impromptu this is. Miles has his sweatpants pushed down just enough to fuck Way. Waylon's ridiculous cartoon character pajama pants are pooled around his ankles and every time Miles thrusts into him he wobbles and grips the counter tighter.

Miles leans over his back. He shoves a hand up under Waylon's wrinkled white tee. Feeling up his slick sweaty skin, touching everywhere but Waylon's dick just to be a literal cocktease. Waylon pants and whines, breathing out his name like he's begging Miles to jerk him off. Miles grins and stills his thrusts, seating his cock deep inside Waylon's cute ass.

“C'mon.” Miles says, craning his neck to give Waylon's pink, overheated cheek a kiss. “Talk dirty to me Way.”

Waylon visibly tenses. “N-No.”

“Come on...” Miles asks again, shifting his hips back a little, sliding his cock out of Waylon about half-way.

“ _Miles_.” Waylon pants, rocking his hips back like he's going to ride Miles's dick all on his own if he doesn't knock it off.

Hey, there's a nice idea. Miles chuckles and files that one away for later. Then he grabs Waylon's hips tightly, forcing him to stay still. Waylon makes a growling noise, completely frustrated by the lack of deep, hard, world-shattering sex he's accustomed to. (All adjectives supplied by Miles, naturally.)

“You know I love the sounds you make when I fuck you.” Miles encourages him, giving just the slowest, smallest thrust to tease.

“I...” Waylon swallows a little, his hips trying so hard to shift in Miles's grip. “I don't know how. I can't.”

“Sure you can.” Miles brushes his lips over Waylon's hot reddened ear.

“Miles, _please_.” Now Waylon really is begging, slamming a palm against the counter top and making all their little spices clink in their racks.

“That's a start.” Miles grins and rewards him with one hard, rough thrust until Way's ass is flush with Miles's hips. “Tell me what you want, Way.”

Waylon refuses, or he can't think of anything to say, so Miles decides to help him out.

“Tell me. D'you want me to fuck you till you scream your throat raw?”

“Yes!” Waylon shouts and Miles gives him another thrust.

“You like having my cock buried inside your tight little ass?”

“Yes, Miles please!” Waylon's back arches and Miles pulls him up off the counter, letting Waylon hold himself up with his hands on the surface of it. “Fuck...”

“Okay.” Miles picks up the rhythm again, his giddy smile pressed against Waylon's warm neck. “You like it when I fuck you hard?”

“Y-Yeah. I... _Harder_.” Waylon's voice is so light and embarrassed on that last word Miles almost misses it.

Waylon's hardly able to stand at this angle, so Miles quickly pulls out, turns him around, and lifts him onto the counter. He shoves him onto his back so fast Waylon has to reach a hand back to keep his head from smacking into the toaster. Miles pulls him forward so his ass is hanging just right off the edge. He throws Waylon's legs over his shoulders, those dumb adorable pajama pants still hooked on one ankle, and shoves his cock all the way back inside Waylon. (Thank god for whoever invented long-lasting lubricants, holy shit.)

Miles fucks into Waylon harder and faster, the kitchen filling up with all sorts of vulgar sounds. Waylon makes the most obscene noises. A chorus of curses and dirty, filthy little begging moans and groans. Waylon's knuckles go white from how tightly he's holding the counter top.

“Touch yourself, Way.” Miles gently commands him, pressing a kiss against one of Waylon's shaking thighs. “Show me how badly I make you wanna cum.”

Waylon's hand was already stroking himself before Miles could even finish talking. It's a race now and Miles has to admit with the way Waylon is biting his lip and fucking his own hand Miles is definitely going to lose.

“Fuck.” He breathes, tensing and burying himself deep into Waylon as he cums.

He's still riding it when Waylon hits his orgasm too, jetting his own cum all over his shirt. They stay still, quiet save for shivering breaths. After another moment, Miles finally slides out, though he still holds Waylon's legs up. He looks down at him, affectionately rubbing his fingers up and down Way's thighs.

“Man, I could really go for some breakfast now.”

“Shut up, Miles.”

 


	3. Public (Eddie/Waylon)

Waylon's checked the same rack of clothing for about the tenth time when the saleswoman mercifully approaches to give him a hand. He smiles at her and insists he's just browsing. She has a look like she doesn't believe him, and okay, it's kind of obvious from the hour he's spent dillydallying around. But he smiles and insists he can take care of himself regardless of his appearance. She giggles and tells him to holler if he changes his mind. He gives her a small wave as she sashays away.

He's walking past the dressing rooms when a hand shoots out from behind a curtain. Before he even knows what's happening, it has him by the collar of his button-up, dragging him backwards into the small, cramped dressing room. His collar chokes him for a moment, until it's let go. Waylon panics, feeling a hand wrap around his throat from behind instead.

Waylon looks forward to see his reflection in the mirror against the wall. When he sees who's behind him he relaxes, even leaning back against him a little.

“Eddie.” He sighs, even as the fingers at his neck flex and rub against his skin like a threat. “Where were you? I've been waiting forever...”

“Oh?” Eddie's voice is against his ear. In the mirror Waylon can see his eyes grow mischievous. “Seemed to me you were making great friends with that who-”

“Don't.” Waylon says pointedly.

“...nice young lady.” Eddie corrects himself, though he's still toying with Waylon's throat.

Not that Waylon minds. Eddie's obsession with his throat and mouth is almost as strong as Waylon's obsession with shoving things in and down them.

Eddie's other hand goes to his hip and he makes Waylon's butt press back against his lap. Waylon's not even surprised to feel the hard outline of Eddie's cock there. But it still sends a warm rush through his nerves.

“Just how long were you spying on me in here?” Waylon asks, holding back a small laugh.

It _should_ be weird. It _is_ weird. Eddie's _really_ weird. But that's okay because Waylon's always been a little weird too.

“Long enough, Darling.” Eddie's voice is practically purring as he rolls his hips against him.

“You can't be serious.” Waylon replies, licking his lips. “Here?”

“Why not?”

“Someone could hear us!”

“Then I suggest you find something else to do with that gorgeous little mouth.”

Minutes later Waylon finds himself on his knees in the tiny cubicle. Eddie is pressed against the wall and Waylon has stripped him of his belt and thrust his slacks and underwear down to his feet. He's running his tongue up along the underside of Eddie's cock, then all around the defined edge of the head. Finally he takes it into his mouth, as far as he can go.

Down and up, back and forth.

Eddie is quiet, but he pets Waylon's hollowing cheeks and strokes a thumb over his pink blush. Waylon makes a soft noise around Eddie's dick, trying to lean into the touch. Eddie makes a hushing noise, smiling, and his hand goes again to Waylon's throat.

The other hand joins and together they add pressure. Not too much. Eddie knows just how Waylon enjoys it. Eddie uses the grip around Waylon's neck for leverage, fucking his eager mouth for all it's worth.

Eddie stills and shoots right down Waylon's raw, overworked throat. The second his hands let go, Waylon shivers, grinding his aching erection against the friction of his own jeans. That's all he needs to cum too.

It takes a moment for both of them to catch their breath.

Waylon wipes the sweat from his brow and a stray bit of cum from his mouth, disdainfully wiping it onto his leg.

“You so owe me a new pair of jeans.” He mumbles, pouting.

Eddie just laughs.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Man, Way's really gonna be sore at the end of this month I think. Also kudos/comments stroke my ego and encourage me to write more sick filth. (Just sayin'.)


	4. Fingering (Chris/Miles)

Five years. It's been five years and it really doesn't feel so long. Miles can close his eyes and, if he lets it happen, he can imagine he's right back there. That sick and sad and twisted place. That monster of a building. He can breathe it, taste the ash and blood and decay on his tongue. Hear the same screams bouncing off the walls. The dirt on his skin. The white hot pain.

He looks down at his hands, flexing his remaining fingers. It never quite feels okay, those missing spaces. He frowns, looks up at his refection in the bathroom mirror, and frowns even more. He looks more aged since. Way beyond what five years could do. Stress and anxiety and depression. Prescriptions lined up in neat little rows on the shelf behind him. It's easier now, but it all still lingers.

The bathroom door creaks open and Miles feels his heart fall. Here he is scowling again. Feeling bad for himself again. Taking so long Chris has to check up on him.

To make sure he's okay. Make sure he's not crying. Make sure he's not breaking mirrors again, even if he said it was okay. That he understands. That Miles has somehow become the more volatile one. That somehow as Chris's physical scars continue to heal, so too does his mental state. Miles feels so stagnant in comparison. His mutilated fingers flex at his sides.

Five years and this would be the very last situation he thought he'd find himself in.

Chris wraps his strong arms around him and he feels safe. He smiles, for real, warm and protected and it's really kinda fucked up, isn't it? But he doesn't dwell on that, especially not when Chris gently encourages him to turn around so he can kiss Miles. Slow and sweet.

Chris presses Miles against the counter and Miles takes the initiative to lift himself to sit on top of it. It brings him to more of an equal height for more kissing. The medications help, but nothing puts him back in his happy place more than kissing Chris.

And, well, other things too.

Miles presses himself closer, wrapping his legs around Chris's waist. His arms go around Chris's neck so he can hold him tighter, closer. Desperately. Always as if he doesn't want to lose him, because, god, he doesn't. Chris is the only good thing to happen to him and that's actually kind of hilarious.

He remembers for a moment how Chris broke his arm dragging him through the asylum. How Miles was so sure he was dead. How he passed out from the surmounting pain and somehow woke up in the hospital weeks later. How nobody knew how he'd managed to make it to the front door. But Miles knew.

Chris has never told him why he saved him. Maybe he doesn't remember why. Neither of them like to talk about the things that happened. It doesn't matter. They're here, together, now.

Mindfulness is easier when you can't think of anything but the person you love.

Chris's hands fit his waist so perfectly. So strong, his thumbs rubbing just under his ribs. It tickles a little and Miles laughs against his mouth. Chris grins and digs his fingers a little more and Miles squirms, filling the bathroom with giggles. Whatever oppressive energy had overcome the room completely dissipates.

“St-Stop!” Miles wheezes, his own hands grabbing at Chris's in futility. “You f-fucker!”

When Chris finally stops Miles grabs him for another, hungrier kiss.

“I'll have revenge for that.” Miles practically growls, grinning wildly when they part.

“How so?” Chris says, his hands sliding down to grab Miles's ass.

“I'm gonna make you fuck me.” Miles replies.

“Oh no, please don't.” Chris rolls his eyes.

Miles notes Chris is not wearing his glasses and makes a mental note to scold him for that later. (He thinks they look cute, regardless of what Chris thinks, besides they really do help after what _they_ did to him.)

In a second Chris has Miles lifted easily off the counter, carrying him like a dainty little bride back into the bedroom. The move isn't even embarrassing anymore. Chris has carried him like this countless times now, both in happy and bad times. It's kind of nice, and Miles teasingly hums “Here Comes The Bride” as he's carried to the bed. Chris gives a small laugh at that, before dropping him onto the mattress and climbing over him.

Chris is so attentive it drives Miles crazy. (Oh, the irony.) He always undresses him so carefully, like Miles is some sort of gift. Some sort of treasure to him. Peeling off his clothes and rubbing those large rough hands over his skin, like he hasn't touched him before. Like he's always new. Like he's something special. And Miles really hopes he makes Chris feel even a fraction as cherished as Chris makes him feel.

Hopes he makes Chris think in embarrassingly smarmy romantic prose like he does.

He's already wanting, writhing, when Chris finally slides one well-lubed finger into him. Miles lets his legs fall open easily to allow it. Chris uses his free hand to press one of his legs up a little, giving him better access to slowly draw it out and push it back in. Fucking him with it, so agonizingly perfect.

Chris's fingers are so thick Miles thinks he puts other men's dicks to shame. (Don't even get him started on his actual cock either, holy fuck.) Miles makes the most unbidden, pleasure-filled noises he's sure he's the reason the neighbors in the next apartment never stay tenants long. He's so warm, so hot, so flushed with need he really wonders if he's got a fever.

Well, he is _sick_ , but there's no cure for how addicted he is to the way Chris fucks him.

Chris adds another finger and shoves both so deep into Miles and waits. Lets him take the stretch, makes him pine for more. Makes him revel in feeling so dirty and full.

“ _Fuck_.” Miles pants, twisting his fists in the sheets as well as he can, head lolling to the side on his pillow.

Chris obliges, fucking his fingers into Miles's tight ass. Faster than before. Pressing Miles's leg up higher, until his knee is near his ear. Until it feels a bit like Miles is getting jack-hammered right open and if Chris doesn't stop soon he's going to cum. And, as if he knows, as if he's so perfectly tuned in to Miles's wavelength, Chris slows again. It's maddening, in the best way.

“You're really good at that, holy shit.” Miles pants, wiping a hand through his sweaty hair.

“I have really good inspiration.” Chris grins, stilling his fingers inside Miles again, his palm resting flat against his perineum and thumb giving teasing little strokes to the bottom of his hard shaft.

“I'd return the favor but, y'know...” Miles wriggles the four fingers of one hand at him, smirking.

Chris laughs and his hand leaves Miles's leg to grab his wrist. He presses a kiss to his palm. Kisses each of his fingers and the stub. It makes Miles go all tingly. Makes his chest feel tight. Even makes him almost want to cry, in such a good way.

Chris finally takes out his fingers and soon he's replaced them with his cock. Again fucking Miles slowly because it's so big, so fucking massive, every time Miles wonders how he can possibly take it. Feels bad he can't take it all, but Chris never complains.

It's not long before Miles cums, making a mess of his own palm and chest and feeling so complete as he rides his orgasm while being filled again and again. He arches up to kiss Chris again and Chris holds him up with his hands on Miles's back. Holding him tight when he gives a last thrust and cums inside him. Holds him still as he gently rocks against him until it's finally over.

Later, after they've cleaned up and are laying back in bed, Miles rests his head on Chris's broad chest. He holds up a hand, focusing again on that missing space. Chris is watching the move, he can feel it. And into his vision he sees Chris point at his pinky.

“That one.” Says Chris, and Miles blinks.

“Hm? What about it?” Miles asks.

“That's the one I'll put the ring on, I think.” Chris replies and Miles feels his chest catch fire.

“Very funny...” Miles says, voice a little softer.

“You saying you won't marry me?”

“Are you really asking...”

“If I was?”

A pause.

And then.

“Yes. I will.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops I accidentally feels'd when I was supposed to kink. (This is also sort of a sequel to my little drabble called Monolith.)


	5. Humiliation (Jeremy/Waylon)

“You're such a terrible boss.” Waylon teases, still heady from his orgasm.

He's blissful, it's heavenly, the way Blaire runs his hands down his back and gently caresses over his jeans. Over the still hot and raw flesh of his butt. He could stay sitting in Blaire's lap for ages, wriggling a little to keep Blaire just a little hard. Just enough to tease.

“See, this exactly the kind of behavior that gets you into trouble.” Blaire smirks.

“What'd you mean, Mr. Blaire?” Waylon grins, leaning in to brush his teeth against Blaire's ear, then to kiss and nip along his jaw.

He's already cum once, but that's not going to stop him. Really, it's all Blaire's fault he's like this. (For more reasons than he's willing to acknowledge right now. Or ever.)

“Waylon.” Blaire says his name, again menacing, though Waylon ignores it.

Blaire can threaten him all he wants. Call him all the derogatory names. Grab him and throw him and fuck him until he cannot stand. All these things that look unhealthy from the outside, but inside Waylon's twisted little fucked-up trashy world it's perfect. Blaire is _perfect_.

In the end Blaire always brings him back to reality with affection. And Waylon knows, deep inside, if he ever begged him to stop he would. (Not that he has.) Because Blaire thinks he's in control, but with these intimate, sweet, dirty little things Waylon has him entirely wrapped around each of his fingers.

“Jeremy...” Waylon sighs, a breathy seductive thing against Blaire's neck.

Waylon slips his hands inside Blaire's suit jacket, intending to get to skin. Intending to untuck his shirt and rip off the buttons if he has to. Even if he doesn't have to, just to give Blaire reason to punish him again. Insects in his tummy at the very thought, breathing fire in his guts.

His fingers bump into something in the inner pocket of the jacket. Interesting. He doesn't even ask, just tucks his hand into the pocket, grabbing whatever it is and pulling it out.

Waylon feels his face go hot and red when he sees it. He's not even entirely sure what it is. After running his fingers over the silky smooth surface of it, tracing the glimmering jewel at one end and the bulbous head at the other, he's almost positive Blaire intends to shove it up his ass. Bastard...

He's practically vibrating with excitement and it has nothing to do with the fact Blaire has turned it on with an app on his phone. God bless technology.

“A surprise for me?” Waylon asks, teasingly trailing the head of the toy down his abdomen to his zipper, wriggling a little as the buzzing stimulates his soft cock through the material.

“More like a... disciplinary measure.” Blaire smirks and shuts off the vibration.

Waylon pouts exaggeratedly. It's a bluff, of course. Inside he can't wait for another deeply satisfying round of punishment from his boss.

“You seem to need reminding of who's in charge around here.” Blaire says, pulling the toy from Waylon's hand.

“Sure thing, _boss_.” Waylon laughs.

Blaire tugs Waylon's jeans back down over his ass. The sting from his earlier spanking has finally started to go away. Waylon almost wishes for a mirror to see if any marks are left.

Blaire has a small tube of lubricant tucked in the pocket opposite the one that had the toy. So attentive and thoughtful he is. Waylon makes a warm, anticipatory sigh, rubbing his face affectionately into Blaire's neck.

Waylon bites his own poor abused bottom lip when Blaire rubs the lube so carefully over his hole. So gently shoving a finger into him, and soon a second. Waylon rocks his ass back and forth, swaying his hips a little, reveling in the way they feel stroking his most intimate places. Opening him up, making him go weak in the knees. Going hard again. Moaning like a whore into Blaire's ear.

He whines and curses when Blaire removes his fingers, but shuts up the second he feels the head of that wonderful little toy, his very special present, pressing past his body's natural resistance and then sliding fully, deeply up inside him. Blaire seats it right up to the gem stopper at the end. Again, Waylon wishes he had a mirror to see it. So sparkly and cute for such a filthy thing.

Blaire pulls something else from his jacket (and Waylon is definitely going to check his pockets more often, sneaky Mr. Blaire). Waylon is too busy giving experimental squeezes and rocks to feel it move inside him to notice at first. It's only after he feels thin, ribbon-like straps slide over his hips and snap together in the front does he catch on.

Blaire makes him stand, which he does if at an awkward stance to accommodate the toy inside him. Two more straps, one about each leg. Waylon gives another testing wiggle, feeling it move a little but no longer feeling like it's going to slide out.

Suddenly it bursts to life, vibrating so hard it makes him yelp and fall forward. Blaire laughs, the jerk, catching Waylon with one arm as the other hand holds his phone, toying with the app. Waylon is already shivering from the intensity, his whole body going red hot. Mercifully, Jeremy shuts it off.

“Yeah, that'll work.” Blaire grins, standing Waylon back upright. “Back to work you go.”

“Wait, what...” Waylon heard him and he can't believe he's serious.

But Blaire pulls Waylon's underpants and jeans back up, covering everything. Patting his arm like Waylon is just some underling. Like they just got done talking about mergers and acquisitions and not like he just spanked Waylon's ass raw and shoved a three hundred dollar butt plug up his ass.

“You can't be serious.” Waylon complains desperately.

“Go back to work, Waylon.” Blaire insists.

“ _Jeremy..._ ” Waylon hisses, already feeling a slow churn of embarrassment in his belly.

Blaire hits some button on his phone and the plug gives two hard pulses that make Waylon go wobbly again. That wouldn't even be a problem, had it not been so much of a distraction that Blaire easily shoved him out the door. The buzzing stops and Waylon falls back against the door just in time to hear it lock. To hear Blaire walking back to his desk. Waylon growls and he waits, arms crossed. There's no way. No fucking way Blaire could possibly expect him to believe this joke.

The vibrator kicks on again, this time softer, gentler, making his blood feel like warm honey and his cock twitch needily in his pants. He shifts his legs, rocking from foot to foot. Makes a low, wanting noise...

Then he realizes he's standing in the lobby for the executive offices.

The secretary looks mortified.

God fucking damn it, Jeremy...

Waylon hurries to the elevator, praying his walk isn't too absurd to give away what's really going on with him. He hits the elevator and the thing shuts off again. He manages to walk back to his own office in the IT maintenance floor without incident.

Sitting in his chair is a struggle. It puts more pressure on the plug, turning even the slightest movements into something erotic. Waylon can't concentrate on anything, feeling so on edge, so hyper aware, so fucking horny he could scream.

Instead he lays his head on his desk, leaving some sweat on the clear glass. Nobody is around. He could just...

The moment his hand touches the front of his pants the vibe turns on. This time it's pulsing regularly. He groans and gropes himself. He rocks his hips, making the toy shift in and out, though the straps stop it from moving to much. But it's enough. A little more and he could cum...

The door to his office swings open and some guy, he doesn't even know his name, comes in complaining about maintenance tickets. Waylon's hands fly out from under the desk and he sits straight up. Bad idea, really, because it presses the plug so tight into his ass, makes the vibration so much more intense, his whole body starts to shake from the over-stimulation.

His co-worker looks so disturbed and confused because Waylon is obviously behaving weirdly. Even weirder than his usual nerdy self. Waylon tries so hard to fight the wash of shame that's overcoming him. The anxiety and embarrassment of it all. Oh god, what if he finds out? What if everyone finds out? What if they already know?

He gives short, clipped answers. His voice even _cracks_ , like a fucking puberty-stricken teen. The guy asks if he's feeling alright and no, no he's not, not with this thing up his ass trying to turn his insides into the world's worst slip 'n' slide. He says he's sick, which actually isn't too far from the truth, and thankfully the guy buys it and leaves.

Waylon shoots the meanest glare he can muster at the security camera in the corner of the ceiling. He's rewarded with another harsh buzz that makes him double over. He grabs the edge of the desk until his fingers go white. He doesn't even touch his dick and he cums all over his pants.

This goes on for hours, with Waylon becoming ever more an incoherent mess. By the end of the day he is so raw, so over-stimulated, he has an orgasm just bending over to pick up an envelope someone dropped. He's pretty sure it was a dry one too, thankfully because his underpants are so gross and sticky against him. He's constantly blushing and embarrassed. So quiet and shy. It's almost like he's his old self again.

In the back of his mind he realizes that's what Jeremy has wanted the whole time.

At the end of the day, after everyone on his floor leaves, Waylon is laying his head on his desk again. The toy hasn't even turned on for the last few hours. Doesn't need to. He feels so sensitive and vulnerable just the smallest touch feels like an explosion of fire.

The door opens. Shuts. There's a hand very delicately palming his sweat-drenched hair. A kiss to his temple makes him shiver and moan.

Somehow Blaire undresses him. Removes the toy, and it slides out so easily that in itself is embarrassing. Cleans him up. Puts him in brand new clothes. Holds him.

Carries him through the dark, empty hallways towards the garage.

Kisses him on the bridge of his nose.

Before Waylon finally relaxes to sleep, he hears Blaire say:

“I missed you.”


	6. Size Difference (Chris/Miles)

They're laying in bed when the alarm clock on the nightstand ticks over to noon. So lazy and content to literally let morning slip by. For the last half hour or so Chris has watched Miles play with his hands. Running his fingertips along his palms and over his knuckles. Tracing his scars. Kissing them.

It took a lot of surgery and healing to fix them, from those mangled and dangerous, murderous, appendages Murkoff gave him. Longer to fix what they did to his head. That's still partly an open wound. Something they both struggle with. These scars.

Miles presses their palms together, his four fingers barely reaching the second bend of Chris's. In the daylight flooding in from the window, Chris can see the glint of the silver band around Miles's pinky. He's never seen him take off that engagement ring, not since the day Chris slipped it on him six months ago.

It had seemed so small then, he'd worried after the weeks he spent agonizing over it that it wouldn't fit. (It did, so perfectly.) Everything seems small to him though. He's always been so big. Something he grew to accept over the years. A target on his back he chose to turn into something humorous, self-deprecating but amusing to those around him.

But Miles always has nothing but compliments.

Miles turns over in his arms and starts kissing him. Gentle and sleepy and warm. Chris runs a hand along his arm. Miles is far from being a tiny guy, but Chris's hands could easily wrap fully around his bicep. He slows at his forearm, petting it even gentler. Cautious.

Five and a half years ago the only touch he knew was violence. Now it's anything but.

Miles climbs on top of him, his long legs stretching to straddle him. He runs his hands admirably up Chris's belly, looking down at him so adoringly with the tip of his tongue between his teeth. Chris feels himself blushing as Miles traces his fingers along all those spots Chris used to be embarrassed about, even before Murkoff made him into a monster. But he's so genuine in his affection, leaning down to press kisses to his skin and rub his hands so appreciatively over his chubby rolls and stretch marks.

Chris doesn't know what he's done to deserve Miles Upshur.

He's already partly hard when Miles slides down, pulling away the blankets and ducking down to lick and suck him so attentively. Until he can shove Chris's fully erect cock into his amazing little mouth. Chris is big there too and, despite what people say, that's not always a great thing. Sometimes it's a hindrance, being so big you physically hurt everyone you've been with.

But Miles manages, breathtakingly. He's taken the time to come up with all sorts of strategies to make the sex fantastic for both of them. They don't always work. Sometimes they end up laughing at how ridiculous his convoluted “maneuvers” are more than actually fucking. And in a way that's so perfect for Chris. Someone to laugh _with_ him during those most vulnerable moments.

Miles fits his mouth over the head of Chris's cock, draws him in as much as he can, tongue pressing tight to the swollen vein running down the back of his shaft. He uses one hand, somehow slicked with lube in Chris's existential musing, to stroke along what he can't fit in his mouth. Chris lets out a heated sigh, watching Miles's head bob up and down. Feeling his cock press so tightly against the back of his hot, hungry mouth.

Chris runs a hand through Miles's hair, pushing it back so he has a better look at his face. How wide his jaw is set taking him in. The flush to his cheeks. The expert way his throat works to slide his cock in and out. Miles looks so hot and vulgar and beautiful and small. Almost petite in comparison to Chris in every way. There has to be so much trust he has in Chris, for so many things.

Miles no longer tries to take all of his cum. It's impossible. So when Chris finally goes tense Miles pulls his mouth off just in time. There's always a lot, always a shameful mess. This time some of it lands on Miles's cheek and chin, dripping hotly down along his jaw and neck. Miles grins up at him, something wicked, and sets to licking up some of it from the still-sensitive head. Chris twitches, panting, watching his husband-to-be fully enjoy cleaning up his mess.

Vulgar.

Beautiful.

Nothing but compliments.


	7. Creampie (Eddie/Waylon/Miles)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was specially requested by a friend to make this one both a threesome and include felching/cum eating. What can I say? I live to please.

It's hard to sit upright in the tub with your arms tied behind your back. Waylon flails and nearly drowns three times before Eddie ostensibly has enough and rigs up some hook-like apparatus from the ceiling to loop his binds over. One problem solved, Eddie moves on to more scintillating issues. Rolls up his sleeves and he dips a hand below the water, grabbing a wash cloth on the way down. Delicately scrubbing Waylon's... parts.

A real go-getter, this Eddie Gluskin. If Waylon weren't nearly pissing himself from anxiety he'd be complimenting his attention to detail.

Part of a cloth-wrapped finger rubs gently against his asshole and Waylon jumps, blushing furiously and wriggling away. The chain above his head clinks and rattles. Eddie grabs his arm, forcing him to still.

“Now, now.” Eddie utters, smiling so deviously it not only gives Waylon butterflies but makes the poor fuckers explode. “You agreed to this, remember?”

And, oh god, he did. _They_ did. Why the hell would they agree to this?!

“Up-sy daisy.” Eddie says easily letting Waylon off the literal hook.

He drags him by the rope, dripping wet and slipping and sliding across the tile floor. Waylon tries really hard to gain his balance to walk into the bedroom with some dignity. That lasts about 3 seconds before he gives up and decides to become a dead weight. Decides to let Eddie work for it. Eddie just gathers him up and throws him across one of his stupidly strong shoulders like a sack of wet and particularly shameful potatoes.

“You're really enjoying this, aren't you...” Waylon grumbles miserably, watching Eddie's butt because that's really all he can see at this angle.

“Immeasurably.” Eddie replies joyfully, giving Waylon's own rear a gentle pat.

For a second Waylon imagines balling up a fist and punching Eddie right in the ass for having so much fun at his expense. With how muscular he is he probably wouldn't even notice. Hell, Waylon could probably break his fingers.

Eddie 'Buns of Steel' Gluskin.

Waylon suddenly bursts into giggles.

“What's got you so tickled?” Eddie asks and Waylon tries to contain his laughter.

“N-Nothing!” Waylon wheezes a little.

“Hmm.” Eddie is obviously not convinced.

Eddie drops him rather roughly to the bed. Something, no, someone shifts next to him.

“Watch out, jeeze...” Says Miles haughtily. “I'm trying to take a nap here.”

“How can you even be relaxed enough to nap?” Waylon asks, struggling with his binds to try and sit up but looking more like a half-dead fish flopping around.

“You two took forever in there. My bath wasn't nearly as long. Look...” Miles stuck out a leg, since his own arms were also tied. “Already dry. What, you guys start the party without me?”

“Waylon wasn't nearly as... compliant... as you were.” Eddie answers.

Miles returns a grin, looking up at Eddie, watching him take off each item of clothing. Eddie's meticulous about it, a far cry from the way he practically tore the clothes off Miles and Waylon. Taking the time to fold them nice and neat, setting them on a nearby chair.

“Yeah well, strip faster and I can show you just how compliant I am.” Miles says, licking his lips.

Waylon feels tiny electric bubbles roll through his veins. _Of course_ Miles would actually be into this, the fiend. The only person Waylon knows who can make a lost bet feel like a jackpot.

“Eager little slut, aren't you?” Eddie says darkly, roughly grabbing Miles by the chin, rubbing his thumb over his bottom lip.

“You brought us all the way to your, what is it? Fuck house? Sex dungeon? Bone box?” Miles grins wickedly, flicking his tongue out to lick once up Eddie's thumb. “Why take the kids to Disneyland if you aren't gonna let 'em ride?”

Eddie lets out a husky sort of growl, kissing Miles roughly. Waylon feels his stomach flip watching them. A warm rush dropping straight into his groin.

Oh god. Oh no. That's really kinda hot.

He's already getting hard. Fuck.

When the kiss ends both Eddie and Miles turn to look at him. Each grinning in separate but equally alarming ways. Waylon swallowed. Shifting in his awkward sitting position, doing little to hide how turned on he really was.

Eddie and Miles look back at each other. Quiet but looking as if they held an entire conversation in their eyes. Waylon felt anxious again. His pulse thrumming unevenly in his throat. Eddie reaches around Miles's back and a second later his hand comes back into Waylon's view. He's holding a rope.

Miles is free.

They are both on Waylon in seconds. Miles slips behind him, lifting him so Waylon's back and bound arms are pressed against his chest. Teeth at Waylon's ear, Miles tonguing and teasing down his neck. Tan hands running over his chest and down his abdomen.

Eddie is between his legs, manipulating him , lifting his legs and pressing them towards his chest. Miles helps, for once, holding his hands behind Waylon's knees, keeping him positioned for Eddie. Waylon bites his lip, feeling Eddie's fingers spreading lubricant all over his intensively cleaned hole, pressing in soon.

“He getting you all nice 'n' wet?” Miles whispers deviously into Waylon's ear, using his grip to spread his legs wider. “You like getting fingerfucked, Way?”

Waylon shivers, feeling the heat coil in his belly. He lets out a needing groan, then a sharp gasp when Eddie begins working his cock into his ass. Arching back against Miles, listening to all the dirty words of encouragement he has for both of them. Waylon feels like he's going to melt straight through the bed from the way Eddie fucks him open.

Eddie is slow, meticulous in this too. Alternately praising Waylon's body and shaming him for being so wanton, for getting so turned on from being lavished with so much attention. Eddie asks if he enjoys being his little whore and Waylon pants out a heated “Yes”. Miles leaves a stinging hickey right under his ear and growls against his skin how hot he is, rocking his hips up so his hard cock rubs against Waylon's spine. Waylon reaches his bound hands the best he can to stroke his fingers over Miles's dick, earning himself a long appreciative moan.

Even after Eddie comes Miles is still at it, filling the air with filthy, filthy words.

“D'you like getting all filled up with cum, Way? I bet you do-”

“That's enough out of you.” Says Eddie, still out of breath and sweating and flushed. (Really even more attractive after a good orgasm and- oh god, Waylon can't believe how horny he is for these two sex fiends.)

Eddie grabs Miles by the shoulder and drags him out from behind Waylon. Waylon falls backwards against the mattress, legs still spread wide and dick aching to fuck.

“Put that disgusting mouth to good use.” Eddie says.

Miles intends to comply, giving Waylon's dick one good lick with his tongue. But Eddie stops him, pulling him by his hair.

“No, here.” Eddie demands, directing Miles lower. “Before he makes a mess of my bed.”

Waylon barely understands what's going on until he feels Miles's tongue on his ass. Feels his hands spreading him open and licking him clean. Gathering up all the hot cum Eddie filled him with. Miles laps it up so greedily, sparing not one single drop. Waylon's hands suddenly wrench free and go straight for his own swollen cock, rubbing himself as Miles eats up all of Eddie's cum.

Waylon tenses with his orgasm, head lifting off the bed as all his muscles contract. After he shoots, after his own cum is left sticky and cooling on his stomach, he lays back, finding a pillow has been slipped under his head. No, not a pillow, Eddie's leg. He looks up at him, so hazy, feeling so warm as Eddie carefully pets the back of his fingers down his flushed face.

He looks downward, just in time to see Miles crawling over him. Watches him lick up the cum from his belly. Catches his eyes and shivers thinking about how Miles seems to revel in the taste of him and Eddie.

And Waylon is suddenly so very glad they agreed to this.


	8. Leather (Eddie/Waylon)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one got so out of hand good god. Hope y'all like emotions to go with your leather glove kinks.

“There you are, my lovlies. You're thirsty aren't you?”

Nothing could really prepare Waylon to see Eddie leaning over his kitchen sink with a tiny watering can, gingerly giving each of his potted succulents on the window sill a drink. Gently encouraging them to do their very best to grow. Petting their fat little leaves with a half-gloved finger so affectionately.

Maybe two years in a behavior health hospital – a _real_ one – really did help tranquilize him.

Then again he did break himself out and go on the run three months ago, so maybe not.

Why did Waylon let him in when he found Eddie on his doorstep?

Why did he let him stay...

“Oh, you're awake!” Eddie said and Waylon realized he'd been staring a while. “I made breakfast.”

Waylon glanced to the table, all tucked into the corner by another window. His apartment was so small and he had been alone so long; when Eddie showed up he only had one unmatched chair. When the days he expected him to stay turned into weeks, Waylon found a couple of yellow plastic milk crates by the dumpster downstairs. Cleaned them up and stacked them to give them both a place to sit. Eddie always gave him the chair.

If he didn't invest in more permanent things, there was still a chance Eddie would go back where he belonged.

Where he needed to be.

The food was still steaming, warm, and far too much for Waylon to eat by himself. Waylon never ate much, especially not since Mount Massive. Not since all the things he saw wrapped so tightly in his brain it was all he could see when he closed his eyes too long.

Eddie must have been the same, probably worse, from the way he talked and shouted and flew awake at night. The way he touched Waylon's hair when he couldn't sleep and thought Waylon did. Whispering tearful apologies Waylon didn't have the heart to acknowledge in the morning.

They slept together, not like _that_ , though Waylon was surprised given their... history. Eddie had been so polite, offering to sleep on Waylon's sofa when Waylon reluctantly said he could stay the night. Just one night, then he had to go back to the hospital.

One night into two into a week. Eddie was too tall to sleep there comfortably and the sofa always made Waylon's back ache if he laid on it too long. Somehow it became okay to share Waylon's too-large bed. Okay to share blankets and sheets. To accidentally end up rolling into each other. To accidentally entangle limbs. To accept it was no longer accidental at all.

Waylon sat in his chair and poked at the plate a little. He was feeling introspective this morning, which made him even less hungry.

“Is there something wrong with it?” Eddie asked, suddenly sounding worried as he crossed the kitchen and sat on his crates.

“No.” Waylon shook his head and tried to give Eddie a reassuring smile.

“Then... eat?” Eddie's smile seemed so much more real. “Please?”

When Waylon hesitated, Eddie picked the fork from his hand and scooped up some eggs. He made like he was going to feed Waylon, who gave him a withering sort of look but opened his mouth. Just before he could shove the pile into Waylon's mouth, Eddie swerved it and ate it himself. Waylon blinked and Eddie grinned.

“What? You never eat it all anyway.” Eddie teased.

Waylon laughed, fully this time, feeling a warm tickle in his chest. Eddie was such a dork, such an impossibly sweet goon, it was hard to remember what he'd done. Why he'd ever been sent away in the first place, even before they met. Before the project.

Could someone like that really be rehabilitated?

Something warm pressed against his mouth. Waylon realized Eddie was actually trying to feed him and took a bite. He leaned his cheek against his knuckles, his elbow propped up on the table. He watched Eddie. Watched him cut through a pancake and sop up some syrup. Watched the leather of his finger-less glove stretch and slack with the movement.

Always wearing those gloves unless he was sleeping or, likely, bathing. They couldn't be the same ones he had in the asylum. Where did he get them? Why did he need them?

Eddie fed him another bite.

Why was Waylon allowing this?

He thought about Eddie's obsessions. Fears and philias. Certainly there was even more than what he witnessed. A complexity of issues that led him to become what he is. Was? Still is deep down, surely.

Eddie wanted a family. Waylon used to have one. The way Eddie carefully cut up his food and watered his plants and made his bed... Everything. In another time and place Eddie would have been a better father and husband than Waylon had been.

Waylon thought of his sons and his eyes burned. His chest burned.

He hung his head.

He knew in dismantling all of Murkoff's bullshit he would never have the same life. Even if he could be the same, which he was not. A target on his back and a weight on his shoulders. He could never be the same. They would never be safe with him. It was better this way, with the threat of remnants of that great and disgraced corporation after his blood for what he did.

Waylon looked to Eddie and thought about worse things he's done.

Keeping him here was one. The most recent.

Sympathy for the devil.

“Eddie.” Waylon said softly, making the other man pause in his feeding of him. “You have to go back eventually, you know.”

Eddie's smile fell. “I know.”

“You _have_ to go.” Waylon repeated.

“I know...” Eddie laid the fork down with a soft clink. “I can't stand that place.”

“It's better than others.” Waylon tried to smile for him. “Besides, you really don't have a choice. You're already in a lot of trouble, you know.”

A delicate conversation. Dangerous.

“Am I not allowed to change?” Eddie seemed upset and Waylon felt himself go tense. “Can't I be repentant?”

“Yeah, of course...” Waylon hesitated a second. “But, Eddie... You killed those girls... You have to pay for that. You know?”

Eddie's eyes went all distant and Waylon thought it was a little disturbing how compassionate he felt for him, after everything. If things had been different for him...

“And running away doesn't exactly put a point in your favor.” Waylon added.

“I know, but I had to see you.” Eddie said, as if it would make sense this time more than any other day he's justified it so in the last few months.

“You're ill...” Waylon tried to redirect, but this time Eddie laid a hand on his arm.

Not rough or demanding but kind and steady. Warm even through his glove.

“No, I mean yes... I am... I know that but...” Eddie's jaw set tight for a moment, fingers flexing against Waylon's skin. “It's you. Why is it just you? How can they work on everything else, make everything else feel... less... Make it all so dull and numb but they can't take _you_ from my head?!”

“I-I don't know.” Waylon stumbled on his words because Eddie's voice was raising and it sent a spike of panic straight through Waylon's heart. “Let me go...”

Eddie's grip tightened, a fraction, then he released Waylon's arm. His fingers trailed down his arm, lingering, then left altogether. Eddie sighed and muttered an apology and stood up. Waylon stayed as Eddie went about wiping down the counters in an unnecessary attempt to distract himself.

Waylon's heart felt like it was going to climb up out of his chest and through his throat. The intensity of that interaction made him feel warm all over. That Eddie could have seemingly made so much progress in the intervening years, but could still be so hung up on him. So obsessed he risked everything on coming to meet him.

He was unwell.

Sick.

So why did it make Waylon feel so special?

“God, Eddie...” Waylon sighed, smiling sadder, looking down at his cooling plate of food. “I wish I could save you from me. I really do.”

“What irony...” Eddie replied with a soft sort of laugh.

Waylon bit his lip.

This was bad.

“Do you really love me that much?” Waylon asked, watching Eddie suddenly go still. “That's what it is, isn't it?”

“Why ask?” Eddie retorted. “You've made it clear you don't return my affections anyway. Or have you changed your mind?”

“I'm... I don't know.” Waylon felt his nerves electrify, crawling through his insides.

Eddie threw aside the cloth he was cleaning with. Crossed the kitchen in a few short strides. Grabbed Waylon by the shirt, gloved hands dragging him up from the chair and pressing him hard against the wall. One hand stayed pinning him tight, the other suddenly thrust up under Waylon's shirt, pressing against his chest. The leather of his glove scraping against his suddenly too sensitive skin.

“Your heart beat.” Eddie practically growled. “Is this how you feel?”

“Wh-”

“Are you scared?!” Eddie cut Waylon's first reply off.

“Well, yeah?!” Waylon was panting, nearly sharing the same air with Eddie's seething words. “And...”

“And?”

Waylon reached up, grabbing each side of Eddie's head and yanked him forward into a rough kiss. It was brief, despairing. Tongues tasting like maple syrup. When they parted Eddie's grip had gone lax, hands lowered to Waylon's hips.

“Oh...” Said Eddie.

“Yep...” Sighed Waylon.

Eddie kissed him again, slower and more meaningfully. Heat rolled through his stomach, dipping into his groin. Somehow Waylon let himself get lead away from the kitchen. Somehow he lost his clothing too, in the intervening kisses and touches and whispers he could hardly comprehend. He pulled at Eddie's clothes, suddenly feeling like he'd ached for his skin. Pined to touch and trace and brush his lips against each scar.

The gloves were still on, sliding down his sides and gripping, lifting him so Eddie could playfully toss him into the bed. Waylon's bed? Their bed?

That was a dangerously permanent thought.

Eddie crawled over him, the leather of his gloves again activating all kinds of electric sparks across his skin. Waylon grabbed one of his wrists, guiding Eddie's palm to his mouth, then his fingers. Kissing. Biting. Sucking on the exposed part of his digits.

“I can take them off, for you.” Eddie said.

“No...” Waylon replied, guiding Eddie's hand lower, making the leather brush over his half-hard cock. “I kinda like them.”

Eddie grinned eagerly, taking the hint and letting his hand rub lightly back and forth along Waylon's dick. “Oh _you minx_...”

While Eddie set to teasing him with that extraordinary sensation, Waylon decided to move things along in his own right. After all, he wouldn't want to ruin those gloves he just graciously complimented. So he took the initiative to get the prep work done, using some lubricant he (thankfully) kept in the bedside table and his own fingers.

Eyes closed and sucking his bottom lip, it took a few moments for him to realize Eddie had gone awfully quiet and still. Waylon peeked and saw Eddie was sitting back, staring at him. Watching as Waylon fingered himself with utter abandon. Waylon was so used to being alone, so used to it being a regular part of his lonely masturbatory routine, he'd just slipped into the indulgence of it.

“Wow.” Eddie breathed and Waylon felt a hot shiver rocket up his back. “You're beautiful.”

“Ohmygod.” Waylon's face suddenly felt like fire and he had to look away, abashed but grinning like a giddy idiot.

Eddie just chuckled lowly, carefully easing Waylon's hand away and guiding his cock into Waylon. Waylon forgot all about his embarrassment and lifted his hips, wrapping his legs around Eddie's waist and his arms about his neck. He felt so warm. Safe. Was it really okay to say he felt safe with him? This was bad.

How many nights had Eddie thought of doing this to him?

How many times had Waylon ignored his own desire for the same?

Every slow rocking of Eddie's cock into him drew a deep breath from Waylon. A hot roll of want through his insides, into his lungs. Waylon pulled himself so close to Eddie, practically riding him from the bottom. And Eddie held on to his hips so tight, those damn leather gloves scrapping against him so deliciously as they helped guide Eddie's thrusts and the roll of Waylon's accommodating hips. Waylon turned his head to press a needing kiss to Eddie's ear.

“Fuck me, Eddie.” Waylon whispered, voice nervous but wanting.

Eddie gripped him tighter, as if he was waiting this whole time for permission. Once given, Eddie obliged, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, deeper. Sending heat into places Waylon never knew he had. Making Waylon's legs squeeze tighter, fingernails digging harder into Eddie's back, leaving scratches that beaded up just enough to leave bright red trails. Pressed so tight to Eddie's body that the friction alone brought Waylon off, cumming hard and heavy between them.

Eddie fucked into him even harder, drawing shameful noises out of Waylon's red, raw throat. Waylon almost missed Eddie's expression, so deeply indulgent and erotic, as he came too. Holding Waylon to him, shuddering, his cock pumping into him in short little waves as they rode it out together.

Even after Eddie pulled out, he stayed laying over Waylon. Not letting all of his weight on him, bracing over him even though he seemed so exhausted. Waylon ran his fingers over his flushed, sweating skin. Up along his back, into his unique hair. Eyes closed and wanting...

Wanting to enjoy the moment. Shoving reality further and further away for those few minutes.

Pretending.

Wishing they could believe in more permanent things...


	9. Asphyxiation (Miles/Waylon)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another special request for this one to be Miles/Waylon!

Miles has been home all of a minute and Waylon already has him pushed down onto the couch. The other man deposits himself right into his lap, kissing him urgently, tongue working into his mouth like Waylon was starving. Not far from the truth. This last 3 week-long assignment left Miles's libido on overdrive too.

His luggage is still laying in a haphazard pile by the door. He has presents, souvenirs, for Waylon. Tries saying as much, but his boyfriend is ignoring that in favor of yanking all the layers of clothing from Miles. He must really be raring to go; Waylon never turns down new gifts. Well, Miles can forgive that. He's also had way too much time with his palm and imagination to squander a chance with the real thing, jet-lagged as he is.

“Miss me?” Miles laughs when Waylon settles back to start taking off his own clothes.

Waylon grins, giving Miles another short, fiery kiss. He grabs Miles's hand and shoves it against his crotch. Miles slides his fingers tightly over the outline of Waylon's cock, feeling how hard it already is straining between Waylon's thigh and jeans.

“Mm-hm.” Waylon hums in affirmation, another demanding kiss before he hops off Miles's lap.

Waylon has his own pants off in a heartbeat, then sets to stripping Miles out of his. On his knees between Miles's legs. Oh, he missed that sight so much. However, he has a much darker desire he's been longing for. Miles licks his lips, brushing his fingers through Waylon's hair.

“Know what I really want?” Miles asks as Waylon pulls his slacks and underwear away.

“To put your dick in me?” Waylon teases, tracing the head of Miles's cock with his finger, making it grow harder with every circuit.

“Well, duh...” Miles makes an appreciative noise. “But...”

Waylon drags that finger through his already beading precum and brings it to his mouth. Miles's brain sort of forgets his train of thought, watching Waylon slowly sucking on his own finger. Damn that sexy oral fixation of his. He's so hard and hot and horny by the time Waylon's finished sucking, letting go of his finger with a wet popping sound.

“But?” Waylon reminds him, grinning wickedly.

“I want you to _fucking_ choke me, Way.” Miles growls out, matching Waylon in deviousness and thrilling to see him light up at the request. “Choke me and ride me. Think you can do that?”

“Oh you _know_ I can.” Waylon beams.

It's not long before Waylon is ready, all slicked up and straddling Miles again, reaching back to help guide his condom-wrapped cock into his ass. Miles almost worried he was going to fast. It had been three weeks after all.

Then he remembers quite a few nights when, in the privacy of his hotel, his nightly video call back home turned into more of a cam-boy show. Recalls how Waylon played with his newest toys for him, telling him how much he missed him; All the dirty things he was going to do to him when he got home.

Miles no longer doubted if his boyfriend could handle a good fucking after their little break.

He has Waylon practically bouncing on his dick. Waylon's always been a little thicker, a joy to Miles when he gets to feel Way's perfect round ass shake against him with every hard upward snap of his hips. Burying his cock so deep inside him over and over. Feeling Waylon's thighs flex against him, squeezing and releasing with expert rhythm.

Waylon may not agree, but Miles thinks he's the sexiest fucking person in the world.

He thrills again when Waylon finally remembers to put his hands on his throat. Pulse thrumming happily as Waylon strokes his thumbs adoringly up along his adam's apple. Pressing harder and feeling the ridges of his trachea. Then stilling, and squeezing harder. The pressure makes Miles's skin erupt into hot goosebumps. Makes it hard to close his mouth. Makes him fuck up into Waylon even harder.

Waylon lets go and the rush is so intense Miles thinks he might already be cumming. He's not, not yet. But so close. He growls, some uncontrolled animalistic noise, grinning and craning his neck to urge Waylon to kiss him. He does, riding Miles the whole time.

When Waylon is sure Miles is ready, and fuck he is _so_ ready, he chokes him again. Fingers so perfectly placed. Squeezing until Miles has to stop kissing. Until Miles is so lost in the pressure and the threat and the trust that he has in Waylon, that it all makes his heart swell and his lungs burn. When Waylon lets go again Miles shoves him down hard, impaling him on his cock. Spasms rock him from the rush of blood from his head straight into his dick. He wonders if the condom can even contain all the cum he feels jetting out of him.

It's minutes before Miles comes down, before he can focus. He feels Waylon lift himself just enough to take out Miles's softening cock. Removing the condom and tying it off and tossing it aside, landing it in the trashcan next to the computer desk against the wall.

“Three points!” Waylon cheers, then returns his attention back to Miles.

Waylon kisses his forehead. His nose. His lips. Lingers there, mouthing against him, the slightest slide of tongue.

Miles feels a little guilty, assuming he'd orgasmed but not Waylon. (Kind of a regular problem, Waylon was just so mind-blowingly hot to him.) It's only when he notices the cooling wet feeling on his stomach, when Waylon dips his finger into his own sticky cum and licks it up, does Miles realize Way came too. A lot of it, judging from how much was rolling down Miles's abdomen. He watches Way scoop up another sinful gob of it, sucking it off his fingertip like some people lick frosting off a cake.

“Mm. Next time you choke me.” Says Waylon.

“God, I fucking love you.” Says Miles.


	10. Knifeplay (Eddie/Waylon & Jeremy/Waylon)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This one is a bit less "kinktober" and a lot more "goretober". 
> 
> The latter half of this one contains dub-con/non-con, blood, violence, and it's kinda just sorta sad. Read at your own discretion.
> 
> Also dedicating this one to genkino because I can.

The experiment is a huge success thus far and, really, Jeremy has Waylon entirely to thank. Had he not pulled such a heinously stupid move earlier that year, this new project would have never come to fruition.

Poor Waylon. Poor, idiotic Mr. Park. If he'd had any modicum of sense, any prep at all, his foolish little plan could have worked. It would take far more than an onion browser and IP proxy to get past them. He should have known better. Shame Mr. Upshur had to get caught up in it too. But, oh, Miles _did_ make such a lovely variant himself.

Enough of that, however. Right now Jeremy is focused on the scene unfolding in front of him. Beyond several inches thick reinforced acrylic glass sits Park and Gluskin. The stars of this project. Gluskin, the maniacal tank, and Park, his dampener, the impulse control.

Gluskin has a carbon steel knife, razor sharp for the first time when all others before were blunt and pretend. He's trailing the edge so carefully down Park's skin. Feather light, drawing just the tiniest hint of red. A disparity to months ago when all the larger man wanted was to make Park his 'bride'. Tried to rip into him, cut him open, and 'fix' him.

Now he's got a blade to Park only because Park told him it was okay. Told him he wanted his _Sweetheart_ to mark him up and make him pretty. Gluskin seemed so eager Jeremy thought there was a good chance he'd accidentally gut his cute little bride from the enthusiasm alone.

No, he was delicate. Conscientious. Park even giggled that it tickled as a tiny heart was cut into his bicep. Gluskin lovingly dabbed away the blood with a washcloth and antiseptic he'd been provided. So dedicated to every whim of his controller. Just like he was supposed to be. The drugs and implants inside both of them gave credence to the idea the broken variants could have some use. Something profitable.

And now, a new test.

“Send in Upshur.” Jeremy said to one of the twitchy scientists scattered behind him. All skittering between servers and computers, monitoring the room with far less amusement than Jeremy.

“He's still in stasis from last time, sir.” Came the reply.

Oh yes, that last encounter between the three _was_ pretty explosive. Upshur's deviation centered solely on Park, for obvious reasons. The source of his pain and near-death, cause of his torture before the Mount Massive “meltdown” was neutralized. It wasn't very long, but long enough to seed the hatred and blame he had for Park.

Upshur wants to kill Park. Park has command over Gluskin. Gluskin is a murder machine.

The dramatics alone could keep Murkoff's entertainment shell companies running by themselves. If they could get away with it. If only.

Jeremy looks down the list of test subjects and unwitting 'volunteers' they have on hand. None seem lucid nor cooperative enough for his needs. Well, that leaves a final option.

He smirks and his blood practically vibrates with excitement in his throat.

“Tranquilize them and set up for a separation test.”

* * *

 

Waylon wakes and immediately reaches for Eddie. He's not always there, he knows. He knows the 'monsters' take him away sometimes. That they do many of the same things to his Sweetheart that they do to him.

It makes Waylon angry, but he tells Eddie to be good each time. Not to fight, not to shout. Be good so he can come back. Be good so they can be together. So neither of them ever has to be alone again.

In the back of his muddled mind Waylon feels a piece of him saying it's not true. What he feels for Eddie can't possibly be true. He's a psychopath and a murderer. It wasn't so long ago Eddie tried to kill him too.

Then another part of his mind takes over. He's not sure what that part is saying, exactly, but it's filling him with such warm feelings. Nice thoughts of Eddie caring for him, touching him, obeying his every want and whim. Such a kind and engrossed husband. Waylon always feels a little sad he can't actually give him the children he wants.

He's no longer afraid of letting Eddie make a real bride out of him, but the _monsters_ won't let him.

Someday...

There's a hand running up along his arm and for a second he thinks it's Eddie and he smiles. When he realizes it's not, because he knows so intimately how Eddie's hands feel, he sits up with a shout. The hand snaps over his mouth. He's made to stand and then a blade is held to his throat. It's one of Eddie's. So thin and sharp. Waylon stills.

“Good boy...” Says the monster and Waylon shivers.

Jeremy Blaire, the worst of them. He tried to make Waylon a monster too. Tried to make him hurt Eddie. Made him hurt so many people.

There is a thick see-through divider across the room. On the other side Waylon can see the bed and other furnishings he was occasionally blessed to share with Eddie. He feels his heart drop solidly into his stomach when he sees Eddie sleeping in their bed, his arms chained behind him and the chain bolted into the wall. Waylon draws in a deep, shaking breath through his nose.

He doesn't care what the bastard Blaire does to him, but he's terrified for his husband.

Sweetheart...

Jeremy nudges him towards the Plexiglas divider. Hand still tight on Waylon's mouth, Jeremy reaches to tap the handle of the knife on the plastic. Eddie stirs. More tapping and Eddie wakes, sitting up and looking dazed. Waylon watches him glance around and tug at his chains in confusion. Can practically feel his anxiety. The panic.

Eddie's eyes finally meet his and Eddie lets out an enraged scream. He's on his feet in a second, already pulling and yanking on the chains, sending bits of concrete from the wall sprinkling to the floor. Waylon hears Jeremy give a huff of a laugh before he pushes Waylon up against the glass some more, making Waylon brace his hands against it.

“Funny...” Jeremy says, dragging the blade so softly down Waylon's spine, making Waylon realize he's already nude. “He's so focused on you he doesn't notice the gun literally at his head.”

Waylon lets out a scream and it's useless because Jeremy's hand has him gagged. So he slams his hands against the glass frantically. Desperately trying to get Eddie to see what he does. To see the security guard behind him in one of the observation decks, with a pistol aimed expertly at the back of Eddie's head.

Jeremy presses down just enough, cutting a small river of blood into one of his shoulder blades. Right through one of the hearts Eddie had left. Another cut and there is an X right through it. He has none of the concern to clean it like Eddie does. Jeremy cares about nothing but what he wants.

He wants to break Waylon. He wants to break Eddie. It doesn't seem to matter which one breaks first.

Waylon is panicking. He's terrified. He's crying. It had been so long since he felt so afraid. Ironically, last he felt this afraid he was at Eddie's mercy. But Eddie loved him now. He knows now. He knows...

Another warm and calming flood in his brain. That's right. They belong together. They have a special bond.

Waylon stops fighting. Leans his head against the glass and stretches out a hand, pressing it hard against the cool surface. Steadying his breathing. Staying calm even as he feels Jeremy cross out all of Eddie's cute little hearts on his skin. Even as he draws a line through the signature Eddie left on his hip. Waylon feels the brand scarred deep in his heart and Jeremy can't remove that, even if he carves it from his chest still beating.

Jeremy finally releases his mouth and Waylon pants. Growls. Sobs. Turns his head to glare over his shoulder at him.

“What do you want?” Waylon seethes at him.

“To test your resolve.” Jeremy says playfully and it makes Waylon's stomach turn. “Or rather, his...”

Jeremy points the blade at Eddie, who is fuming and glaring but staying calm. Not fighting. Not hurting himself. Not getting executed. That's all Waylon wants.

The blade comes back to Waylon and the tip is allowed to brush down his face, from temple to jaw. A small rivulet of blood follows. It stings. It burns. It didn't hurt when Eddie did it.

Eddie stiffens and makes like he's going to start ripping the chain again. Waylon lays his hand out against the glass again and draws his attention to his eyes again. He mouths at him, sweet words. Soft words. “Stay.” “No.” “I love you.” “Sweetheart.”

Jeremy's other hand is rubbing over his ass. Down his thighs and back. Brushing over Waylon's soft cock.

“Usually you're into this.” Jeremy teases, grinning.

“You're disgusting.” Says Waylon.

“Says the freak who gets off getting all cut up and abused.” Jeremy flicks the blade against one of Waylon's thighs and it goes too deep and Waylon screams.

From the other side of the glass, Eddie shouts. It's muffled and echoic but Waylon knows what he said. Calling out to him, his _Darling_ , and Waylon starts to shake.

Jeremy dips his fingers into the wound, gathering up the blood. The hand holding the knife rests on Waylon's tailbone. The other, the one with the blood, rubs right down his crack and spreads the blood, already sticking and drying, over him. Pressing a finger into him rough and hard. It's not wet enough and it hurts but even if it were this could never, ever feel good.

“Please don't hurt him.” Waylon pleads, voice sick and weak.

“You're pathetic.” Jeremy says and Waylon can hear him undoing his belt.

“Just leave him alone.” Waylon whimpers then screams, feeling Jeremy shoving his cock into him, slick with what he assumes is more of his own blood.

“Or what?” Jeremy asks, teasing the tip of the knife along Waylon's throat again as he thrusts into him. “You've got nothing. You're worthless.”

Waylon's hand on the glass balls into a fist. He growls. Cries. Throws an insult or two.

“Shut the fuck up, you little _bitch_.” Jeremy replies.

Jeremy pulls back the blade then shoves it forward, stabbing it through Waylon's hand so far the tip scratches against the glass.

There's a loud bang.

Then another.

A scream.

Waylon feels so sick. Feels all his bravery drop to the floor. He's afraid to look up. Afraid to see what happened just now beyond the wall.

He's been trapped with the monsters long enough.

He knows what gunshots sound like.

Another loud noise and it's closer. It rattles the glass. Waylon realizes Jeremy has stopped shoving his dick inside him. He doesn't question it. He's not even relieved. He drops to the floor, and yanks the blade out of his hand. He curls in on himself, covering his ears.

The glass rattles again.

A crackling noise.

And it falls to pieces.

By the time Waylon looks up again Eddie has Jeremy pinned to the floor. There is an entire chunk of concrete attached to his chains. Likely what he used to bash down the glass. It's what he's currently using to turn Jeremy's face into cherry jello across the floor. He doesn't even know how he got his arms from his back to his front.

But Waylon is so relieved to see Eddie is okay.

Then he's crestfallen to see he's not.

Bright red spots across his back and arms.

There's another shot and another pop of blood, spraying in an arc off Eddie's back. Waylon gets to his feet and runs. His bare feet slip in Jeremy's torrent of blood and Waylon's body smacks the floor heavily. Eddie suddenly drops the concrete and turns to gather up Waylon in his arms. Crying. They're both crying and kissing and ignoring the copper taste of their tongues.

Ignoring the footsteps flooding the cell.

The metallic clicks of rifles.

“Darling.”

“Sweetheart.”


	11. Foodplay (Chris/Miles)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How about some cute and sweet Chris/Miles to make up for that last entry?

They have been shopping all day. If it can be called that. They've actually bought very little in the eight hours Miles has dragged Chris around Main Street. Miles is happy to keep bouncing from shop to shop, enjoying the brisk fall air and drinking what is his fourth cup of fancy coffee. This one is maple nut twist! (He's not even sure what the hell that is but it's damn tasty.)

Chris doesn't seem as eager, which isn't surprising. Miles may be missing fingers and have a smattering of scars, but Chris's are always more obvious. Always drawing even the most open-minded person's stare. He often walks around with a scarf and hat, long sleeves, sun glasses, even in summer. Anything to cover up.

It makes Miles's heart sink, but he doesn't try to make him take it off. Whatever makes him comfortable. Whatever makes him okay. Miles would show him off to the world bare-ass naked and praising every single part of him if he could. Though it's just as good he gets to do that when they're home alone too.

Somewhere down their lazy meandering they reach a small bakery and Miles suddenly remembers something direly important. He grabs Chris by the arm and drags him inside. (Okay, maybe Chris allows himself to be dragged, Miles is no wimp but his fiance is a wall of meat.)

He tells the cashier he has an order to pick up and Chris gives him a dumbfounded look.

“What do you need a cake for?” His voice is a little muffled by his thick knit scarf.

“It's actually several sample cakes.” Miles explains, then expands when Chris doesn't seem to get it. “Wedding cakes, you fuckin' goon.”

“Miles, the wedding isn't for another year-”

“Shh...” Miles hushes him with a gentle punch in the arm. “They don't have to know that.”

One of the bakers brings out a huge box, a good two-feet across at least. Miles nudges Chris to grab it whilst he pays at the register. When he turns around Chris is eyeing the box suspiciously. Miles just grins.

“Just how many samples did you order?” Chris asks.

“Uh, I dunno. About 20. 25? 'Round there.” Miles shrugs, holding the door open so Chris can carry the box out.

“Twenty five cakes?!” Chris is flabbergasted.

“Samples! Twenty five _samples_ , Chris.” Miles is adamant that his good idea was just that. “What do you have against cake anyway? I am like fucking Cake Jesus right now. Now stop complaining or I will go all kinds of Bridezilla on your ass.”

“You mean you aren't already?” Chris teases and Miles doesn't even need to see his face to know he's grinning.

Miles sticks his tongue out at him. And flips him off. (Thank goodness he still has _those_ fingers.)

Chris just laughs.

* * *

 

Six samples in and Chris is ready to give up. It's not that they aren't good, they're all delicious. It's that Chris is fairly certain he can only take so many pieces before Miles will have to call off the wedding for putting Chris in a sugar coma. He's tempted to just lay down on their couch and nap already.

Miles is a bottomless pit, however. He wasn't entirely joking about this either. He's actually got the little memo pad on his phone open and making little notes about the cakes. Chris isn't sure what there is to say about them. Cake is cake. But Miles is treating it like it's so important. Like their future marriage hinges on picking the perfect flavor combination.

“What'd you think of that last one?” Miles asks, tapping something into the memo pad.

“Uh, it was good?” Chris shrugs.

Miles gives him an exasperated sort of glare. “You've said that about every one, you shit.”

“But they _are_ all good! It's not my fault you're _so good_ at picking cake samples.” Chris grins, which only makes Miles's over-exaggerated pouting even more dramatic.

“Don't you butter me up, asshole.” Miles grumbles, taking a very grumpy bite out of his seventh sample.

Chris knows he thought he had enough around cake number six. But Miles has just the most tempting bit of chocolate frosting clinging to his mouth right now. It would be a travesty to let that go to waste. He gently grabs Miles by the chin, leans in, and licks off the frosting nice and slow.

“Oh, I think I like that one best.” Chris snickers.

“Smooth. Very smooth.” Miles returns a laugh, leaning in to give him a proper kiss.

Truth be told, Chris really doesn't care what cake they have. Where they get married. If there's even a ceremony at all. Of course he wants what Miles wants. Miles wants everything. He wants them to have everything any other couple has. Miles wants stability. Normalcy. If this wedding helps Miles feel happy and okay, Chris would endure anything to make it happen exactly the way he wants it.

They part from the kiss and Miles has dipped his finger into the icing of another cake and very intentionally smears it against his own neck.

“Oops.” Says Miles.

“Really?” Chris sighs, smiling.

“I'm waiting...” Miles replies.

Chris laughs and leans in, licking and then sucking away every trace of sugar from Miles's skin. When he pulls back Miles has another bit of frosting on the other side of his neck. Chris says he's being ridiculous, then dutifully cleans up that mess too.

It's probably not surprising they end up stripped and covered in a disaster of cake. Colorful splotches of buttercream are smeared all up and down Miles's warm body. Chris has him pinned to the floor, likely covered in similar spots, even more when Miles picks up a fistful of cake and ungracefully smashes it against his chest and spreads it out, only to arch up to start licking it away.

It's going to take forever to clean the living room. With the way Miles wraps his legs around Chris's hips and thrusts up to rub their erect cocks together, Chris would personally scrub it all with a toothbrush just to get to cum looking at the mess of a man below him right now.

Miles wraps an arm about his shoulder, leaning in to lick away some more icing from Chris's collar. Chris feels Miles's other hand slide between them, managing just barely to grab both of their dicks and adjust them so they fit together better. Chris lets out a low, appreciative groan and the warm flooding sensation it gives him and in seconds he's got a hand on Miles's back and the other bracing both of their weights on the floor.

It's a mess. They're a mess. Rocking and grinding and humping without much forethought or finesse. But it feels so fucking _good_ anyway.

It always feels good with Miles.

They cum and it's a mess too. Miles first and Chris minutes later. The cake and frosting is starting to get dry and flaky. There's bits of it in their hair. Cum mixing with sprinkles and strawberry jam on their bellies. Miles starts laughing first and Chris laughs even harder. How ridiculous. They're so ridiculous.

Chris wouldn't want it any other way.


	12. Lingerie (Jeremy/Waylon)

Waylon has been staring at the box on his bed for over an hour. He opened it when he first got home from work, saw what was inside, burst into a panicked blush, and slammed the lid back down on it. Now he's sitting on the opposite end of the bed from it. Staring at it, as if he could somehow will what was inside it to disappear.

God damn it, Jeremy. How did he even manage to sneak that thing into his apartment, anyway?

Waylon's phone suddenly buzzes with a new text message:

 

>Are you wearing it yet?

no...< 

>Why not?

u know y...<

 

Waylon eyes the box again, feeling anxious. Hot. A mix of embarrassment and curiosity. Was Jeremy really into such... things?

 

>You have 5 minutes.

or?<

>4 minutes and 55 seconds.

 

Swallowing heavily, the tension still clinging tight to his throat, Waylon finally slides off the bed. He rings his hands a little, then starts stripping. He's alone, he _knows_ he is alone, but he still feels like he is being watched. Feels like someone is observing his every move. Could Jeremy actually see him now, as he tosses off his shirt and kicks off his shoes and socks? As he undoes his belt and slips off his jeans and underpants...

He actually wouldn't put it past Jeremy to set up some secret perverted cameras in his apartment. After all, he'd managed to get that dirty package into his room while Waylon was away.

Waylon's completely naked and finally out of excuses. He sighs and flips the lid off the fancy box again. Inside, laying delicately among the black tissue paper, is a set of clothing. Well, lingerie. Black and red and smooth. Something obviously designed for women, though the dimensions of it seem custom made to fit him.

What the actual fuck, Jeremy...

There are a few separate pieces. Waylon slips on the red pair of panties first. His face is blazing hot already. This is so weird. So weird and kind of hot. Oh no.

He lets the waistband snap gently against his hips. His dick, already betraying him by starting to swell, can barely fit inside. It feels... interesting. The way the material fits so snugly against him, it almost feels like a bra for his balls.

Oh god, he can't believe he just thought that. 

Next is the chemise, mostly red microfiber with black lace trim across the chest and hem. Waylon feels it a little, biting his lip, skin prickling with the thought of Jeremy picking it out. Jeremy touching it, imagining Waylon wearing it. How it's going to feel when Jeremy makes him strip out of it.

Waylon's phone buzzes again. He sets back to slipping the chemise on. It fits close but remarkably well. It's stretchy so he can move easily. Clingy, but not uncomfortable. He turns to look in the full-length mirror that doubles as his closet door. Waylon always thought of himself as a rather masculine guy, but the lingerie accentuates curves he didn't even think he had.

For some reason that gives him a boost of confidence.

Black garters dangle from the hem but he has no stockings for them. Yet. (God is he really considering wearing this thing again?) He ignores them and fetches the final piece of the ensemble. A black leather collar. On the front is a small, silver, heart-shaped bell. Waylon licks his lips and puts it on, tightening it around his throat. Experimentally making it a little too tight, until he feels his hardening cock stretching the front of his panties, then setting it back to a point where he can breathe comfortably.

This whole experience is really waking something inside him. Oh man.

Waylon finally retrieves his phone, looking at the messages Jeremy has left.

 

>Well?

it's on<

>Prove it.

 

Waylon was sort of expecting that, but it still made him let out a nervous sigh. Gosh, he felt so warm. It's not like he's never sent his lover pics. He's even sent some pretty risque ones. But this is so very different from before. 

Waylon opens the camera and holds it at just the right angles. He takes several shots and chooses three of the best ones. He considers adding a filter or adjusting the contrast, like he always does. But Jeremy complains when he makes noticeable adjustments. Jeremy says it's an insult to his personal tastes, that Waylon thinks he needs any retouching.

Another odd sort of confidence booster.

 

>More.

 

Waylon thrills and his cock presses so tight against his panties it's popped up over the waistband. The front is already sticky and wet and now there is a damp spot forming on the front of the chemise too. Waylon pushes the panties down and hikes the chemise up enough for his dick to be free, bobbing in the air surrounded by all that sinful black lace. He feels so vulgar...

He takes another picture.

Suddenly the front door flies open. Waylon freezes. His eyes grow wide and worried. He nearly drops his phone. He's flushed red and hard and wearing ladies' lingerie.

Lord have mercy.

Jeremy has him thrown on his back before he can even say hello. Waylon shivers as Jeremy runs his hands down the smooth material. It feels just as erotic as he imagined it would. After practically devouring him with a heated kiss, Waylon feels his heart nearly fly out of his chest as Jeremy moves lower.

Out of the two of them, Waylon is definitely the one with the deeper oral fetish. He can't help it. Even now he's got one of his knuckles to his own mouth, brushing along his lips then biting onto it. Licking, eyes closed and his other hand lovingly petting Jeremy's expensive haircut.

Waylon has the oral fixation, but oh does he appreciate the way Jeremy goes down on him.

He likes to think he taught Jeremy all those wonderful things he does with his tongue.

Jeremy squeezes his ass and swallows him whole. Lovingly sucking Waylon off, burying his face into his well-groomed pubic hair and the lace. Working his mouth and throat so well, up and down. Waylon's honestly so proud.

Waylon blindly digs out a bottle of lubricant from the bedside table and tosses it rather lackadaisically at Jeremy. He doesn't even have to say what he wants. Merely a breath later Jeremy has his legs spread wide and is slowly finger fucking him, all the while still sucking and licking and teasing Waylon's hard cock. Jeremy's other hand yanks down the panties further, so forcefully Waylon hears the stitches crackle and snap. Jeremy fucks two fingers into him while his mouth sets on his tightening balls and sensitive perineum.

When Waylon cums he cums hard and fast. Jeremy never likes to get it in his mouth. (Waylon's developed quite a taste for it, but that's another story.) Right before he's about to shoot, he gives Jeremy a couple of taps on his crown. That's all the warning he gets. If he doesn't move and gets a mouthful that's his own problem. (Though Waylon secretly hopes he would, just once.)

Laying back contentedly, riding out the rush, Waylon smiles and lets his hands slide up and down his chemise. He almost can't believe he was so against wearing it earlier. He laughs a little when Jeremy seemingly finishes cleaning up and comes back to give him a deep, satisfied sort of kiss.

“Mm. So glad you liked my pictures.” Waylon says warmly.

“Oh? You sent me pictures?” Jeremy asks.

“Yeah?...” Waylon is confused.

“Shame. I couldn't see them. Lost my phone in the cab this morning.” Jeremy replies. “Where did you buy this outfit anyway? You should get another.”

“What?” Waylon feels his stomach bottom out. “What do you mean? You didn't see...”

“Yeah. Sounds like whoever found my phone is gonna have a hell of a surprise though.”

 

Waylon's phone buzzes.

 

>Thank you for the lovely show, Darling.


	13. Abasiophilia (Eddie/Waylon)

His sweet angel. Precious little girl. She writhes still, days after the agony of her final fall. Poor thing. She must be so clumsy. It's adorable, almost endearing if she hadn't obtained the injury running away from him.

Eddie runs a palm warmly down her cheek. Her jaw. He's done so well in his grooming of her. Shaving away that surely embarrassing facial hair. Cleaning her from head to toe so intimately. She would forgive him, that he had to wash her delicate bits. Even that abomination between her legs. They would take care of that disgusting thing soon enough.

A place like this is no place for someone so beautiful. After she passed out from the pain, exhausted from her screaming and crying, Eddie had been sure to take her somewhere safe. Back to the home he had created for his future family.

That future begins with the lovely one laying before him now. He's sure of it. She's the one. His perfect girl. His cherished wife.

He lets his fingers trail down, over her tiny breasts and soft waist. He spreads his palm warmly against her stomach, imagining with a fond smile how her tummy will swell with his seed. His child. _Their_ child. The culmination of their predestined love.

His hand slides further down her nude form. Sweeping over the slightest curve of her hip. She's not fat but there is a fullness there. Eddie can accept that. What were they called again? Ah, yes. Child-bearing hips. He chuckles to himself and continues to run his fingers down her leg.

Oh, if only she were awake to appreciate his worship; his reverence of her body.

The touch stops at the plastic device wrapped about her leg. She'd suffered greatly from the fall that stabbed that wood stake through her leg. Suffered still trying to run on it, taking slips and falls and sheering the bone and muscle this way and that. So silly and flirtatious. He would have to scold her, gently, for making him worry so.

Eddie was proud of how well he'd been able to take care of her. Lacking the necessary items to create a proper cast, he'd managed to find an ankle-foot brace to keep the healing parts snug together. Tight. Healing. He runs a finger over the plastic, warm from her body heat. He rubs his palm against it and she doesn't even flinch in her sleep. It's so smooth and good. He can't wait to see her walk on it. Limp on it. Cling to him for support.

She will have to rely on him, in so many ways. And he will be so good to her.

He runs a finger along the edge of the brace, where it meets her skin. Eddie shaved her here too. Nice and smooth. She is going to be so happy with him. She'll have no choice but to love him then. Not that he doubts she will.

Eddie licks his lips. He almost wants to shove his fingers inside the brace. To feel her surely sweaty, uncomfortable skin. To feel how well it restrains her.

He doesn't, but oh he wants to. To take it apart again. To unwrap her like he said he would. To see how well she healed because of him. He wants to slip it off and see her relief, her ecstasy at letting her skin breathe. How overjoyed she will be. How appreciative of everything Eddie did to make her whole. And that would be just the start.

Eddie wants to fix all of her problems.

Every. Last. One.

His body is betraying him. As if he could resist with such a temptation in front of him. Even unconscious his girl is teasing him. Making heat sink into his deepest places. Awakening such ardent desires. He's so tempted to touch her. To do the most vulgar things to her. To defile and deflower her most treasured innocence. Eddie wants to make her his, undeniably.

Eddie doesn't realize his hand is squeezing her leg brace tighter until she makes the softest groan. Such a cute little noise. It makes his heart pang with guilt. She needs her rest. To recover for their impending vows. And here he is unable to contain his lusts until their wedding night. He's so silly sometimes.

Still, there is a shameful matter to attend to.

Quietly, Eddie slips away, to some far away corner where she cannot see. He doesn't want to ruin her impression of him with such a deplorable act. But a man has his needs. Soon enough he will never have to commit this sinful habit ever again. His girl will give him everything he could ever need.

He doesn't waste time pulling out his erection. Not a second wasted on frivolity. He's a gentlemen and good men don't touch themselves like this. Good boys dont waste their seed. But he can't help it, honest. Can't help the building need. Can't help the way his penis head gets wet thinking of her laying so close by.

Imagining how it will feel to consummate their love with every brush of his thumb over the tip. Licking his lips again, he thinks of how nice it will be to kiss her and have her finally kiss him back. How she'll feel around him; tight and wet and hot and needing. How she will encourage him and compliment him. She will be consumed by her desire for him too.

Eddie strokes himself until he feels the embarrassingly familiar arrival of his orgasm. He quickly pulls a handkerchief from his vest pocket. Thankfully, he manages to catch most of his abhorrent semen. Disgusting filth. The only redeeming trait being its necessity to create his children.

And at that thought he smiles, tucking himself back into his slacks and straightening his clothes.

From the other side of the room he hears his Darling stirring from her long slumber.

There is a wedding to plan.


	14. Sensory Deprivation ('Silky' Variant/Miles Upshur)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Contains Dubcon.
> 
> Half-way through the month and I'm testing some weirder stuff. (Actually was suggested by a friend.) I love fulfilling requests, man.

No name. Nothing. There's nothing. So much nothing.

No name.

He can't remember. Tries. God he tries, because he thinks he had one. Thinks it was his. Lost it. No, they took it. Like they took his eyes and tried to take his tongue. His mouth worked around those bandages though. They can blind him, but he still speaks. Can still feel.

Feels everything, even when there is nothing.

Crawling under his gnarled flesh.

An irritant.

An itch.

There is always screaming. So loud, his brothers. Their tortured wailing makes him shiver. Without his eyes this no-name, this broken tool, feels their curses right in his spine. Burrowing into his brain. Festering. Itching. That painful hex, empathy.

And then there is another. Oh he hears the difference. This warmer man. How he pants and cries and tries to sneak by. How desperate he is. This other, new man, seems so alive just by sound. Warm, yes. Maybe he could scratch...

Oh, he's so warm, yes. The new man, this clean one, he is so alive. Heat in his blood. Meat under his skin. Dirty, but so welcoming. Soft. Silky.

“Ah, Silky.” The no-name says, blindly stumbling toward the new one. “Silky.”

Truly that's the new man's name. It must be. So fitting. So true.

Stumbling after him and calling his name. His Silky. His. The cure for his itch. Cure for everything. So warm.

His Silky sounds so afraid and he wishes to comfort him. To share with him. To feel. Touch. Silky must desire it too. He, with his dreadfully intact vision and muddled senses, just cannot find his way like this no-name can. Poor Silky.

He follows his warm new friend to a corner of the cell block, all the while cooing and calling. Gently encouraging. Knowing they both understand. This was a destined thing certainly. Why else would his Silky lead him somewhere so private?

Oh his caged bird of a heart flutters so happily for the first time.

If only his arms were free from the straitjacket's embrace.

No matter, no matter.

There are many ways to scratch an itch.

His Silky gasps when he manages to back him into the corner of the cell. Tenses, poor thing. This blind and unworthy one follows the sound to Silky's ear. Speaking so low and comforting. Pressing his cold body to the warmth.

“I can scratch your itches too.”

Another gasp and curses. He rocks against Silky and oh it feels so good. Feels so stirring and warm. Silky tries to shove him away but it's too late for that now. He can't stop until the feelings are satisfied. Without his sight the warmth deep down there feels even better. So he runs back and pins his new friend to the wall with his shoulders.

Certainly he must want it too.

Everyone has needs.

How can he resist something that feels so good?

It's not as good as being inside something. Wanting for the hot and wet and the tightening of flesh around flesh. But it's good. Feels good, rubbing against another like this. Feeling muscle against muscle. No-name is hard and Silky is getting there too though his penis is slow. Broken. Poor thing.

“Pretty. Silky.” He says to encourage the limp, though it hardly works. “So pretty and warm. Silky. Silky skin.”

And Silky tries to shove him away. Must be embarrassed. No matter. No-name shoves him back and grinds hard against him. Until the friction is too much. Until it's almost painful.

Ah, there.

Hot and wet and sticky, soaking into Silky's clothes.

He cannot see Silky's face, but surely he must feel so satisfied too. Can hear it in his panting. Feel it in the shaking of his hands as he shoves No-name away. He'll catch his breath and thank him soon, surely.

A well-scratched itch.


	15. Crying (Jeremy/Waylon)

The noise starts soft enough. Jeremy hardly notices it at first. When he does he assumes it's something in the vent. Some irritable little rodent taking up residence. He'd have words with the janitorial staff.

Then it gets louder. Sobbing. Some painful, wracking noise. Now he's even more irritated. The nature of his position means he must hear such things regularly. The whines and cries of criminals and the deranged and “volunteers” from the lower ranks. He's used to that, but it shouldn't reach his personal office.

He's about to call maintenance about soundproofing (even more than it already is) when he hears a loud thump come from across the room. Jeremy looks toward it but doesn't see anything out of the ordinary. Strange. Focusing again, he hears the sobbing. Quieter now, as if whoever is crying is trying to muffle the sound.

There's no mistaking that it's coming from inside his office now. He stands and follows the sound. Closer and closer, until he's standing right outside the coat closet. Whoever it is must have heard his approach, because suddenly the cries cease. Without more warning, Jeremy throws open the door.

Sitting on the floor, hands clutched desperately over his mouth, is Waylon Park. Full-time employee and part-time object of desire. (Perhaps more than part-time now, though Jeremy chooses not to dwell on that.) His cheeks are red and wet. Breathing erratic and strained through his nose, which is congested and sniffling anyway. It looks as though Waylon has been there for quite some time.

Jeremy thinks he should feel disgusted, but Waylon is always an enigma. Always so acutely captivating and needy. Fragile in the most attractive ways.

“Jesus Christ.” Jeremy sighs and holds out his hand. “Get out of there.”

Waylon eyes Jeremy's hand for a second, then wipes his palms on his pants before accepting the lift off the floor.

“Sorry,” Waylon mumbles, looking at the floor. “It's been a... bad day.”

“How long were you in there?” Jeremy asks, going to his desk to retrieve some tissues.

Last thing he needs is someone walking in thinking he made the guy cry.

“How long have you been back from your last meeting?” Waylon gives a small, pathetic sort of laugh as he wipes his face and blows his nose with the tissue.

“Two hours?” Jeremy is surprised, and a little irritated. He can't really place why.

“Oh god, really?” Waylon rubs a hand over his eyes.

Jeremy watches him cringe and fidget. The way his shoulders shake. How his muscles seem so tightly wired. Like he's on the brink of crying again.

Jeremy doesn't particularly care why Waylon is upset. It's not really his business and many employees end up cracking every now and then. It's the nature of their work. A known risk.

Of course, those ones often end up being “volunteers”.

Waylon's been showing signs of instability for a while. Jeremy has noted this, but not pointed it out. He's not exactly ready to get rid of his favorite toy just yet, broken as it may be. Not while Waylon seems so cherishable like this. So adorable in his weakness.

Jeremy sits in his desk chair and motions for Waylon to come over. Waylon doesn't seem to notice, so Jeremy gives a small whistle. Waylon looks to him and obeys, looking so sad and confused and somehow younger with his tear stains and the dragging of his feet. As if he's falling into some new vulnerable head space. A stark change from other personality shifts Jeremy has witnessed in his favorite little employee.

Waylon crawls into his lap, straddling him. Tucking his wet, flushed face into Jeremy's neck. Suddenly such a pitiful thing. Jeremy should find this wholly unattractive, but because it's Waylon he can't help but feel a little turned on. He's so pliant and affectionate. So needing.

“Want me to make you feel better, Waylon?” Jeremy rubs a hand down Waylon's back, stopping just above his butt.

Waylon makes a mild whining sound and Jeremy laughs. Oh, he's definitely falling into a submissive mode again, this one so soft and gentle. Something interesting. Jeremy would like to play with this new side of his decaying toy.

“Want me to take care of you?” Jeremy asks.

Waylon nods against his shoulder and that's all Jeremy needs. He encourages Waylon to kiss him. It's thrilling; tasting his mouth after he's been crying is such a new and unique flavor. As if he can feel all his pain and pitiable sorrow. Jeremy thinks he really should make Waylon cry more.

He pulls off Waylon's clothing one by one. Slow and tender, enjoying how appreciative Waylon is of the affection. If showing him something akin to love is what makes him seem so small and delicate and submissive, then Jeremy will make Waylon feel like the world revolves around him. Jeremy has defrauded and cheated many more important things in his career, love is an easy one.

Eventually he lifts Waylon up and lays him back on his desk. It makes taking off his pants and other things easier. Besides, this way he gets to look at him fully. Admiring how willing he is, how his cheeks are still so pink and his eyes so wet.

They have done so many indecent things together, but this feels a particular brand of obscene.

Jeremy's so turned on he doesn't waste time on prepping Waylon. They fuck enough that it shouldn't be too much of a problem. Even if it is, it's not _his_ problem, really. He lubes up his cock and eases his way into Waylon.

Waylon gasps and whimpers, fingers suddenly grabbing tight to Jeremy's shoulders. Maybe he did need some prep after all. Tears spring back into Waylon's eyes and roll down his face. Jeremy pauses, if only so he can lean down and kiss him. Savoring the anguish on his tongue. Parting to kiss his temple. Licking his lips and enjoying the salt of the teardrops that cling to them.

“Want me to stop?” Jeremy asks, already knowing the answer.

Waylon shakes his head. Good boy.

Jeremy starts fucking him. Not slowly but not too fast or hard. Not for Waylon's sake but because he wants to witness every little wince. Every little moan and sob. Wants to make Waylon cry more, not really caring why.

Waylon clings to him. Kisses him. So into the way Jeremy is curing his insecurities. He probably feels like they're making love and Jeremy is fine with that. It's all a part of his new plan. His new game.

Waylon's hips meet his thrusts, shoving his cock so deep. If Waylon hurt, if he was resistant, he is no longer. Soon Jeremy drops the pretense, driving himself into Waylon's heat for the carnality of it. Snapping his hips forward so forcefully it makes the most lewd skin-on-skin noises.

Soundproofed walls and vents, money well spent.

Waylon orgasms first, tucked against him, shaking breath warm at Jeremy's neck. He's shivering and cordial. Loving. Jeremy feels the wetness of his face against his skin and soon he's cumming too. He pulls out just in time to shoot his cum all across Waylon's warm belly. They stay locked like that, Waylon gently petting and cuddling against him.

Jeremy, for whatever reason, allows him this intimate afterglow.

Waylon doesn't know he's already scheming up new ways to make him cry.


	16. Wax Play (Miles/Waylon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one was a little late. I hope it was worth the wait!

It's no surprise that the power goes out when it does. It's actually more surprising it's lasted as long has it has. It's been pouring rain for twelve hours non-stop. There's a good flood of 3 inch-deep water flowing into the basement of the apartment complex. The power goes out and then the back-up generator snaps on. Soon that too gets overwhelmed and the block is powerless.

It's fine. Everything is fine. At least it is while the sun is back-lighting the gray sky. It's when evening falls that things get... alarming.

Miles knows it's irrational. That's what the doctors always say. The trauma and stress still reverberating in his head from that one night. That one fucking night in that forsaken shit hole. It's not just the memories, though they never believe him. It's like something crawled inside his brain and died there. Took root and grew. Tinging every fucking waking, sleeping, and every other moment of his life.

The darkness makes it worse, but the light never makes it go away.

The closest he gets to understanding, to knowing what it's like, is Waylon. Ironic, isn't it? If it weren't for Waylon, Miles would never have the demons, that serpent of depression or anxiety or PTSD or even fucking evil little nano-bug bullshit skittering around inside him if he'd ignored Waylon's email. If he'd just ignored him.

Miles lights candles to ward off the darkness. Another irony. How many deranged and frightening things had he seen lit by candles in his winding path through Mount Massive. He hates it, but it's better than the dark.

The handle to the front door jiggles and he jumps, nearly knocking over the candle he was lighting. It jiggles again, louder, and there's a rapping on the door. It takes a moment for Miles to steady his pulse and realize who it has to be. To know the panicked breathing and calling of his name.

“Miles! Miles! Please open up! Please-”

Waylon nearly punches him in the face with a knock that was meant for the door. Miles grabs his wrist to deflect it and Waylon falls into his arms. Blabbering. Hyperventilating. Saying he ran up the stairs because their building is so dark. Relaying how his phone battery died halfway up so he was without a flashlight. How he thought he could make it, thought it would be okay, because it's been three fucking years, and he should be better by now, and he's sorry, and he hates that he's so weak, and he's sorry, and, and, and...

Miles pulls Waylon inside their apartment and kicks the door closed, loudly. Even back when they were escaping the asylum together Waylon always chastised him for how loud he was; The way he slammed doors and pressed buttons. Later, when they were friends, it was how noisy he was making popcorn and how he yelled at the TV when they played video games. Much later, when they became lovers, it was the way Miles spoke in such dirty phrases when they fucked, how he let everyone in the surrounding apartments know how good Waylon made him feel.

Months ago Miles stood on the balcony and shouted to the city how much he loved him, and suddenly Waylon stopped complaining about how loud he was.

Miles leads Waylon into the living room, where the majority of the candles are spread. They make the room warmer than usual, but with how soaking wet and cold Waylon is it's probably appreciated. Waylon doesn't go for the couch but the floor, sitting with his back pressed against the front of it. Placing himself between the coffee table and the couch. Miles can't blame him, he doesn't like having his back exposed either.

Miles sits next to him. It's quiet save for the storm outside. Dark save for the flickering of candle light. It would be romantic, if it weren't such a terrible memory for both of them. Miles wishes it could be different. Wishes they could be typical. Then again, their abnormality is what keeps them so close, isn't it?

If he's gotta be fucked up for life because of Murkoff's bullshit, at least he doesn't have to be alone.

That's kind of fucked up.

But it's also fucked up to be in love with someone you have every right to hate too.

He feels Waylon slide a hand, cold as ice, down his arm. Fingers stretching over Miles's palm and linking with his own. It's awkward, given he's missing one. It feels strange. Never the complete 'we fit together so perfectly' shit other couples talk about. Miles faintly wonders if Waylon ever felt that way with Lisa...

Cold lips to his ear, makes him shiver.

“You're overthinking again.” Whispers Waylon, leaning against him and getting the arm of Miles's long sleeve shirt damp.

“What are you, my therapist?” Miles says, smiling a bit and broken from his thoughts.

“Lately, yes.” Waylon points out, brushing the tip of his icy nose against Miles's jaw stubble. “Why don't you see one anymore?”

“I don't get to fuck my other therapists.” Miles replies and turns his head to give Waylon a kiss before the other man can argue more. “You're freezing.”

“I did have to walk home in a flood.” Waylon shrugs. “The buses stopped running.”

“Jesus, you should have called me.” Miles starts peeling off Waylon's wet clothes, which he allows.

“And what would you do? You don't have a car.” Waylon laughs and helps Miles strip him down.

“I dunno, steal a canoe or something? I would've at least helped you walk upstairs.”

A while back Miles got rid of his old jeep. It was so damaged and falling apart. And though it was the vehicle they both escaped in, it also held the memory of that place. Settling in the city meant most things were a short walk away anyway.

Waylon was the only thing he wanted to keep from that time.

Miles is about to wrap Waylon in a blanket when the other tuts him and shoves it away. Waylon leans in to kiss him and pull at his clothes. It doesn't take long for Miles to realize he wants him naked too. Well, fair is fair. Plus it gets Waylon to pull his back away from the couch. Miles is happy to be a distraction for him, just like he's a distraction for Miles.

It's probably not healthy, but it works.

Soon Waylon has Miles pressed onto his back on the floor. Straddling him naked and rolling his hips, with just enough space to make Miles's hardening dick rub against Waylon's balls and ass. In the candle light he looks so seductive. Almost mystical. Miles will forever have a deeply embroiled distaste for cult leaders, but looking at how magical Waylon seems in this light makes him feel driven to worship.

Miles slides his hands up Waylon's thighs, easing the chill off his skin. He's not muscular, nor is he thin. He's got a softness to his legs and his belly. A thin covering of hair, much less prominent than Miles's. A faint dusting of freckles over his skin, from his pink cheeks to, well, his _other_ cheeks. The damp hair on the top of his head is a mess and slightly curled and seems to be a halo in the unsteady light.

Miles has never called another man beautiful. Hell, he's never really called a woman beautiful either. But Waylon is.

Waylon is so fucking beautiful.

He feels Waylon still and watches him look off to the side. Waylon smiles and Miles loves when he smiles, even if he's not sure why he's smiling at first. Then he leans over and when he comes back he's holding a red candle. The light from it suddenly makes sweet, innocent Waylon look so devious, Miles feels his heart flutter excitedly.

“Whatcha got planned in that pretty little head of yours?” Miles asks, though he's certain he knows where this is going.

“Well, it would be a shame to let all this good, hot wax go to waste. Y'know?” Waylon sucks on his own bottom lip, giving his hips an enticing wiggle against Miles. “May I?”

Miles grins, because Waylon always asks permission. Even when Miles has given it before. He's so considerate and loving and hard-to-resist. Not that Miles has ever wanted to resist before.

“Yeah. Of course.” Miles nods.

Waylon looks so pleased already, it makes Miles feel warm before the wax ever touches his skin. When it does he gasps. It's hot, but not overly so, just enough to sting as it rolls from his stomach and down his side. The first pool has barely dried before Waylon pours another. They've done this before and Waylon knows just the right height to keep the temperature just right. Just hot enough to make Miles shiver and arch his back a little.

The carpet is going to be a bitch to clean, but they already have so many unseemly damages to this place to pay for anyway.

Another trail of wax travels over Miles's chest, sliding over one of his nipples. He gasps, shouts, louder. His eight fingers dig a little into Waylon's thighs.

“You okay?” Waylon asks, pausing and seeming truly concerned.

Miles grabs a hold of his hips and thrusts up, making him feel the tight press of his hard cock right against the underside of his sack. Waylon lets out a sharp pant, falling forward and bracing himself with one hand on Miles's chest, breaking up the drying wax trails. His other hand holds the candle out and away.

“That feel okay to you?” Miles grins, giving another hard upward grind between Waylon's legs.

“Ah!” Waylon gasps and bites his bottom lip and sets the candle back down on the table.

“Done playing already?” Miles teases.

“ _Hardly_.” Waylon teases right back.

Waylon gets up and leaves for the bedroom. Miles almost follows, but Waylon tells him to stay and Miles doesn't complain. How can he, when he gets to watch the delicious bounce of Waylon's bare ass as he walks? When Waylon returns he has condoms and lube and that's almost as dandy a sight.

Waylon straddles him again and gives him quite a show. Miles is more than happy to lay back and watch as Waylon slicks up his fingers and fucks himself with them. Rocking over Miles, his dick so hard the tip rubs against Miles's stomach. When Waylon opens his eyes and sees the outright mischievous look on Miles's face, he grabs one of the condoms and tosses it at him.

“Make yourself, ah, useful.” Waylon pants.

Miles does as he's told. The second the condom is rolled on, Waylon grabs Miles's dick and slowly begins to slide it into him. Adjusting back and forth until he's almost seated down on it fully. Waylon stops a moment, sliding his hands down his own body enticingly.

“Don't make me fuck you through this floor.” Miles says, hardly threatening.

Waylon laughs. “I could say the same thing.”

And Waylon starts riding him. Slowly. So tight and hot and just enough to make Miles ache for it. Slow enough that Waylon can grab the candle again. He sits back again and dribbles some of the hot wax down his own chest. A little at first to test, then more. Miles can hardly stand the way he shudders around his cock. Can't look away from the sensual trails the red wax makes down Waylon's skin. How it flows down across his stomach and hip and drips, nearly cold, onto Miles.

If the wax were white he'd look even more sinful.

Miles files several ideas related to that away for later.

Finally, Waylon puts the candle back and starts riding him in earnest. Driving himself down onto Miles's cock. Miles reaches for the lubricant and wets one of his hands to give Waylon something nice and tight to fuck too. He used to worry that his missing fingers would gross him out. Miles certainly couldn't jack off anymore for a very long time. But Waylon has never complained once. Nor does he now, mouth gaping and flushed red and sweating. If he looked any hotter all that wax would probably melt again.

Miles cums with a loud curse, a feral “Fuck!” shouted up at the ceiling as he goes all tense and feels his cock emptying into the condom deep inside Waylon. For a minute he forgets what he was doing. It's really easy to get lost in the orgasms Waylon gives him. When he does come back to reality, Waylon is smiling down at him, like the fucking sexy, lewd angel he is. Waylon is still hard against his palm and Miles wastes no more time.

He shifts their positions, pausing to pull out and take off the condom, leaving it off to the side to clean up later. (Hey, the carpet needs cleaning anyway, right?) Miles flips Waylon onto his back and immediately goes down on him. Lavishing Waylon's dick with all the worship he deserves.

Waylon grabs his hair tight, making dirty noises and saying the most amazing foul phrases usually reserved for Miles's warped tongue. Miles thinks he could almost orgasm again just hearing his boyfriend talk so sinfully. When Waylon says he's going to cum Miles is ready for it, taking every last drop and swallowing.

Miles feels totally spent, so he lays his head on Waylon's wax-stained belly to rest. Waylon laughs softly, now petting his head gently, brushing the hair from his eyes. Content enough to rest here the rest of the night. Happy enough to push all those earlier worries away, at least for now.

The candles around the room are slowly melting down and it's almost too warm. The living room looks like a disaster. The storm is still raging.

And Miles feels fine.


	17. Blood/Gore (Eddie/Waylon)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Like the chapter title says, blood and gore ahead. Also canon-typical misogyny and implied Variant-altered Waylon.

There is a distinctive shrieking echoing through their home. It rouses Waylon first, sharply. He sits up completely, startled. Soon there's a warm hand on his hip. Any anxiety he has dissipates at his husband's touch.

“The boy is awake.” Eddie mumbles, sleepily.

Waylon looks down at him fondly when Eddie rolls over onto his back. Their bed is a little messy, just like the rest of their home, but Waylon has worked very hard to make it as decent as possible. Eddie put so much effort into arranging everything for their future family, even before they had met. Before he had pursued Waylon so passionately. Even when Waylon had foolishly resisted, ignored what he now knows was their destiny to be together.

Looking back now it almost seems like he had been a completely different person. Perhaps he was. After all, he hadn't known then just how much he would fall in love with his husband. It was like all of those inconvenient fears and traits slowly slipped away the longer he stayed with his beloved.

The wailing increases in volume and Eddie lets out a tried growl. Waylon tries not to smile too much. So adorable, his husband, even when he's a little grouchy in the morning. He leans down and presses a gentle kiss to Eddie's temple.

“Morning, sweetheart.” Waylon says warmly. “I'll tend to our boy, you put on the coffee, hm?”

Waylon slips out of the bed and picks out his clothes for the day. He has quite the collection since he first arrived. Eddie is so handy with his sewing, it's truly a marvel. He could really be a tailor if he had the opportunity to make a career of it. Waylon doesn't even mind that all he has are dresses. They're so finely made from what material his Eddie manages to salvage. Besides, as time goes on he finds them almost preferable.

And, well, he will soon be the perfect woman Eddie deserves, so he ought to get used to feeling pretty.

He puts on his newest dress and brushes out his hair, delighting that it's now long enough to pin back. Waylon has spent a lot of time reading through the vintage magazines Eddie has collected from around the grounds of the asylum-turned-homestead. Regrettably, they haven't managed to find any make-up for the full dainty housewife appearance. But Eddie, sweet dear Eddie, says Waylon is so cute he doesn't need it. It makes Waylon's insides go all melty just thinking about how much Eddie loves him.

Now that he looks presentable, it's time to tend to the nursery.

The boy, called thus because he's yet to earn their family name, makes such a racket it's easy to find his room regardless. A once holding cell that Waylon had cleaned up the best he could. Just as he'd swept up the halls to protect his often bare feet. (One day Eddie will find him a decent pair of shoes, he promised!) Waylon wanted to impress his husband with his housekeeping skills, but also wanted to give their children a decent home.

Even those adopted mongrels, ungrateful as they are.

Waylon slides open his “son's” door, smiling warmly even as the “boy” screams at him to get away. Perhaps he's not physically a child, but he certainly behaves so. Wild and uncouth and so undisciplined. Just like his lamentable brothers. It's a shame these poor boys never had a proper upbringing. But Waylon and Eddie are doing their best, adopting them like this to give them a shot at reform. Too bad so few appreciate that.

“Hello, dear.” Waylon smiles, trying to be the kind of mother Eddie would want him to be. “Did you sleep well.”

“Fuck you!” The boy screams, pulling and struggling with the straps and chains they used to pin him to his bed.

It's for his own safety. Poor thing is a hazard to himself and others. Waylon had hoped by now he would have come to his senses. Realized that his new parents only wanted the best for him. (As Waylon had realized long ago how Eddie only wanted to love him, to fulfill wants and needs he never knew he had.) Unfortunately it seems like this boy is stubborn to no end.

“You watch your language.” Waylon huffs. “Your father would be so cross if he heard you speak like that.”

“Eat shit you sick freak!” The boy shouts back, shaking at the restraints again.

“Why you ungrateful-” Waylon bites his tongue.

It would do no good to regress back to his own deplorable way of speaking. Especially not after Eddie had taken such care to teach him proper motherly etiquette. Waylon lets out a alleviating sigh and sets to gathering up a wash bucket and cloth to bathe his abhorrently ill-mannered son.

He's about to start sponging the brat's face when he hears a loud snap. Then another. Another.

A low, menacing laugh.

Waylon screams as he's shoved and tackled to the floor by the boy. The straps are broken and the chains have enough slack for him to pin Waylon to the cold floor. Loose enough to throw a punch into Waylon's face.

His nose erupts with pain and a rush of blood. He cries and tries to cover his face, feeling the blood inundate the back of his throat. He gasps and sobs as more punches land around his face and chest. He aspirates some of the blood and starts to choke on it. Gagging. Gasping. Black dots in his vision.

He's terrified, more than he's been in a long time. So shocked and scared. Horrified at the thought that his “son” is going to kill him and his poor Eddie will be alone again.

The boy suddenly moves off of him and Waylon rolls onto his side, coughing and spiting up gelatinous globules of already clotting blood. There's a sound of a struggle and screaming and cursing. And then, mercifully, it stops. And Waylon is crying, but at least he can breathe again.

“Darling!” Comes Eddie's voice and Waylon is so relieved. “Are you alright?! You're bleeding!”

But Waylon just smiles as he feels Eddie gather him into his arms. How safe and protected he feels. How loved and nurtured as Eddie uses his sleeve (his own sleeve!) to dab away some of the blood from his nose and mouth.

Waylon looks over to the boy, or what's left of him. Splayed out in the corner and eviscerated, with all his disgusting, glistening guts spilling out in a pile from his belly. Blood rolls out in a slick red lake all around the corpse, flowing from large rip through the abdomen as well as other shallower cuts he must have got from foolishly trying to fight Eddie off.

Nearby is Eddie's favorite blade, glinting in the room's artificial light, wet with the miscreant's blood.

This would be the sixth adopted child they've had to send away for misbehavior.

Suddenly, Waylon feels like crying again, covering his face with his bloodied hands once more.

“What's wrong, my love?” Eddie asks, so gently. “I wouldn't think that sight would still get to you so.”

Waylon shakes his head and desperately tries to wipe his eyes. “You must think I'm a horrible mother. I can't even keep our children in line for you.”

“Oh, you sweet thing.” Eddie caresses Waylon's cheek and he instantly leans into it. “You're a wonderful mother. These ingrates were already broken when we took them in, remember? Don't worry, our real children will be much better. We'll raise them right, from the very first day.”

Waylon suddenly feels full of warmth, bursting with love. How blessed he is to have such a kind husband. Yes, someday they will have a little one that will appreciate such a devoted father. Waylon cannot suppress the excited laugh that escapes him. He throws his arms around Eddie's neck and pulls him in for an adoring kiss.

“I can't wait for you to make me whole, sweetheart.” Waylon coos against Eddie's mouth, feeling a blush touch his face when he sees Eddie lick away some of the blood he left on his lips.

“I'd planned to use _him_ for more practice but, well...” Eddie sighs.

Waylon laughs. “Oh? Planning to turn our son into a daughter?”

“That one would never become a lady, regardless.” Eddie replies.

“It worked for me.” Waylon smiles.

“You're special.” Eddie returns the smile and kisses Waylon's nose.

Waylon grins and wriggles a little in Eddie's lap, so full of happiness now. Of course, that action makes him oh so suddenly aware of a, well, pressing need his husband is so courteously not telling him about. He bites his lip and looks Eddie right in the eyes, thrilling when the man smirks.

“Eddie, dear.” Waylon says, quite thrilled if a little shy about how turned on the other apparently was in their situation. “You're... certainly excited.”

“Forgive me, Darling. I can't help it when you're so close.” Eddie kisses Waylon again, squeezing him closer as if to prove the point, pressing his hardening cock to Waylon's hip.

“May I take care of you?” Waylon whispers to Eddie's mouth. “After all, you've taken such good care of me...”

“You don't have to.” Eddie says, smiling and the rub of his hands tells Waylon what Eddie actually wants.

“I want to, please?” Waylon asks as cutely as he can and Eddie nods.

Waylon's pulse leaps and he crawls out of Eddie's lap. Turning so he's facing him on his knees. Eddie is sitting on the floor with his back to the wall. Perfect. Waylon crawls forward, lamenting a little that his pretty dress is now so ruined with dirt and blood. No matter, his Eddie will fix it up like new again. Like he always does for everything.

Gosh he loves him so.

Eddie's already so hard by the time Waylon pulls his cock free from his slacks. It makes Waylon's heart flutter, seeing how excited his love is for him. How passionate he is for Waylon's touch. He traces a teasing finger around the head and lower. He knows such light touches just won't do for the kind of pleasure his husband deserves.

He looks at the drying blood on his hand and has an idea.

Waylon leans away for a second. He stretches his hand out until he feels his fingers and palm get wet and warm. The blood is already starting to go dry, but maybe it can still be useful.

Anything is worth trying, if it will make Eddie happy.

“What are you up to?” Eddie asks bemusedly.

“Waste not?” Waylon replies, wriggling his crimson-coated fingers. “It's worth a try isn't it? Perhaps that freeloader can be useful for something after all.”

“Oh my artful girl.” Eddie praises him and Waylon feels a surge of pride.

Waylon does try to use the blood to keep his hand slick as he slides his palm along Eddie's shaft. Experimentally adjusting his fingers and grip and speed. But it dries out to fast and doesn't work as well as he'd hoped. Oh well, Plan B then.

He wipes away what he can but he's honestly already got the taste in his mouth anyway. Besides, Waylon is a bit giddy to rub Eddie's cock against his lips. To lap eagerly over the head. To fit as much as he can into his mouth and throat. They cannot truly consummate until he's fixed, but that doesn't mean there aren't other ways for them to enjoy their matrimony.

Soon the blood taste is gone and replaced with the flavor of Eddie's skin. The salt-bitter of his pre-cum leaving a slick dab along Waylon's tongue. Eddie is panting and petting Waylon's long hair, pulling it from its pins so it falls messily to his shoulders.

“Darling.” Eddie calls, and Waylon looks up at him with his mouth still working around his cock. “I'm going to fuck your throat now.”

That's all the warning Waylon gets or needs. Eddie grabs him by his craning neck, so small in comparison to his hands, and forces Waylon still. Waylon doesn't resist, letting his muscles fall into a familiar lax as Eddie shoves his cock so deep Waylon's nose connects with his abdomen. He tries not to wince. He feels Eddie's pubic hair tickle his lips and nose. He chokes a little, but Eddie is considerate enough to pull back before he truly gags.

Eddie fucks his mouth so hard. Every surface of it feels raw. Waylon is so hot and slobbering along Eddie's cock, keeping it nice and slick as he forces it down his sore, battered throat again and again.

One last, violent thrust and Eddie holds him there, shooting his cum right into Waylon's mouth. When he pulls out some of it overflows and dribbles down Waylon's chin, landing on the front of his filthy dress. Waylon coughs a bit, covering his mouth as politely as he can. It takes a while for him to regain his breath again, and for the pain in his nose to ease away again.

But he doesn't complain. His sweetheart, his Eddie, is so good to him. He would not ruin his happiness for anything. Waylon wants to give him everything he desires. To be whatever Eddie wants him to be.

A good wife.


	18. Daddy (Jeremy/Waylon)

All of these random presents that show up in Waylon's apartment should really be unnerving. Today it's a stuffed animal, a fuzzy blue teddy bear to be exact. That really shouldn't make him blush, but given the reason he knows it's there he can't help the pop of hot pink that crawls across his skin. There's a tag on the ear and the moment he reads it he feels a bit like he's been set on fire.

 _From Daddy_. Oh Jesus Christ.

Waylon starts laughing, a mix of genuine amusement and nervous embarrassment. He really is open to this, honest. They've played out this kink before. He likes it, judging from the explosion of butterflies in his tummy whenever he thinks back to their previous scenes.

But he still feels a little silly in the beginning. Waylon always assumed getting into the right head-space would be some instant transcendental thing. Like he could snap his fingers and become some kinkmaster “daddys-little-boy-slut” thing. That's the fantasy, isn't it? But Waylon is shy and it's hard to just fall into it. Hard not to think about how weird it is, even if it does turn him on.

Jeremy has been surprisingly patient with him on this. Telling him to take his time to get into it. Setting up boundaries and going slow. It makes Waylon happy. Makes him more eager to try new, dirty things.

Waylon holds his new teddy close to his face, takes a selfie, and sends it to Jeremy.

thank u, sir. Password? <

> Welcome, “Apricot”.

Waylon grins. At least he's sure he's actually talking to Jeremy now, and not any _perverted phone thieves._ He treks to the couch and flops down, holding his bear in his lap as he texts. It's so soft and fluffy, he wonders how much it cost, then retracts that thought. Jeremy has no qualms about price tags and doesn't like Waylon to worry over it. He still does from time to time, but...

Hell, it's nice being spoiled a bit, what can he say?

r we playing 2night? <

> Would you like to?

Waylon sucks his bottom lip, feeling a warm roil in his blood. He still gets nervous, and he still thinks this kind of thing is goofy, but it's also undeniably hot. And honestly enjoyable too. Getting to forget about the stresses of his day to do something fun and a little hilarious and a lot adventurous.

sure... <

> See you later then, pup.

A thrill runs through his throat and Waylon can't help the excited smile that crosses his mouth. He's already dizzy with anticipation and Jeremy won't even be home for another couple of hours. Just enough time for him to ease into the right head-space.

It does get easier. Within an hour he's showered and scrubbed extra clean. (All ready to get dirty in another way.) He's got a nice pile of pillows and blankets gathered in the living room and there are cartoons on the TV. He's lounging around in his underpants, t-shirt, and socks, his new teddy tucked under one of his arms. He still doesn't feel much like what he imagines a “little” should feel like. But he is comfortable and rather carefree.

Also a little hungry.

Waylon stands and stretches, yawning a little. He's not all that sleepy, but being so warm and comfy has made him so relaxed. He walks toward the kitchen, slipping a little in his socks. That gives him a fun idea, so he runs a little and stops to slide along the wood floor the rest of the way. Hey, the whole point is to be a little immature, right?

He throws open the fridge door, takes one look at all the gross health food inside, then slams it shut. He wants something sweet. Jeremy won't be home for a while anyway. He could get away with being just a little naughty...

Yeah, okay, maybe he really is falling into it now.

Reaching up to the top of the fridge, he finds a cookie jar and gleefully retrieves it. Soon he has it open on the counter island and is going to town on some chocolate chip cookies and milk. He's just thinking about how he should clean up before Jeremy gets home, when the front door opens and he suddenly freezes in place.

He seems to be doing that a lot lately.

Jeremy doesn't say anything at first. Just looks him over from head to toe. It makes Waylon accutely aware of how he must appear now. Bent over the island with his nearly bare butt exposed, cookie crumbs on his mouth, a pink tinge on his cheeks. Equal parts cute and sexy, if he could dare to acknowledge that he could be either of those things. Jeremy seems to think so, with the way a smirk reaches his lips.

“What are you doing?” Jeremy says and his voice sends a pang of heat right into Waylon's boxer briefs.

“N-Nothing!” Waylon says, turning and tucking a hand behind his back to hide the cookie he was about to bite into.

“Doesn't look like nothing.” Jeremy sounds skeptical.

Jeremy sets down his brief case by the door and takes his time to remove his coat and other unnecessary accessories. Even when he's stripped down to his shirt, tie, and slacks he exudes power. It makes Waylon want to shiver. Suddenly he feels so small in comparison. For some reason that feels like a good, exciting thing.

“What are you hiding, pup?” Jeremy asks, walking closer to Waylon.

Waylon takes a step backwards to match every one of Jeremy's, until his back is against the refrigerator. Jeremy closes in and reaches forward with one hand. Waylon tenses and makes a soft noise, not that he's really afraid of what Jeremy will do, but because it just seems right for this little scenario they're improvising.

Then Jeremy rubs his fingers along Waylon's cheek and Waylon casts his eyes downward. Jeremy slides his thumb along Waylon's lips and cups his palm against his jaw. Waylon shivers and finally unhides his hand, showing the cookie and pouting a little.

“I'm sorry.” Waylon says, trying to pretend he's sad and not about to start laughing at how silly he feels.

“Oh I see. You've been a little bad while I was away.” Jeremy grins and his mouth is so close Waylon can feel his breath.

“Yes.” Waylon shudders, feeling hot.

“Yes?” Jeremy implores him, his hand sliding down Waylon's neck.

“Yes, sir.” Waylon whispers in reply.

“Sir?” Jeremy stills his affections.

Waylon feels his face heat up even more, this time with embarrassment. He's never said it out loud, the thing he knows Jeremy wants him to say. And he knows if he stays quiet long enough Jeremy will know he's not ready and move on. But...

But...

“Yes...” Waylon tries to swallow the tight, nervous flutter in his throat. “Ng. D-Daddy...”

Jeremy lets out a soft laugh, not chastising him but seeming so affectionate. Maybe even relieved. It makes Waylon's chest tickle. It's almost like Jeremy is proud that he could get over that hurdle in their play. For Waylon it's a weight off his chest. A whole new world of sinful opportunities.

“Looks like I'll have to discipline you. You little sneak.” Jeremy says, taking the cookie out of Waylon's hand.

“But! I was hungry!” Waylon replies, going back to his exaggerated pouting with even more excitement flittering in his veins.

“You could have waited, pup.” Jeremy says, giving Waylon's cheek a kiss after tossing the cookie on the counter. “What if I wanted to give you an even better treat when I got home?”

Waylon actually whines at that, feeling himself getting hard. “I'm sorry, I won't do it again.”

“Good boy.” Jeremy's hand goes from Waylon's neck, down his chest, and to his cock, palming it through his thin underwear. “Now let me give you what you deserve.”

Waylon finds himself being bent over the island counter. Jeremy grabs his waistband and shoves the material down to his knees. Waylon almost anticipated pain. That Jeremy would spank him for being so bad. But the sting never comes and Waylon has to fight the small disappointment he feels. And the shame that he could actually desire that.

Instead, Jeremy is on his knees behind him, grabbing Waylon's round ass and spreading his cheeks apart. Waylon spreads his legs a little more, using the counter for leverage. He gasps when he feels Jeremy brush a thumb over his hole. Moans deeply and goes feverishly hot when he feels Jeremy's wet tongue swipe over it a second later.

He hides his blazing face in his arms as Jeremy proceeds to eat him out. Feeling Jeremy's tongue digging in as far as it could go, leaving him feeling so slick. Waylon feels like he's going to fall apart from the way Jeremy drags his tongue over his sack and perineum in long, slow strokes, licking all the way back up to his wet little hole and burying his tongue inside again.

Waylon's going to cum. He's so close. Panting and writhing and barely able to stand. He goes to touch himself and Jeremy suddenly slaps his hand away. Jeremy pulls away from him, leaving his saliva cooling on Waylon's skin.

Waylon whines, wriggling his butt a little in protest. Jeremy just chuckles and suddenly Waylon feels Jeremy standing behind him. He gets excited, but then something unexpected happens. Jeremy encourages him to lift his head.

Moments later there is something around his throat. Some soft and satiny thing, lined with lace. A collar. A tag dangles from the front of it. Waylon gulps, feeling an electric pull in his pulse.

“We're not close to done yet, pup.” Jeremy whispers against his heated skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To Be Continued~


	19. Pet Play (Jeremy/Waylon)

Waylon is laying on his back on his little open fort of pillows and blankets. He's holding onto his new teddy bear, biting down on the poor thing's ear to keep from making too embarrassing of noises. Jeremy is between his legs, nudging the head of some silky, lubricated toy into his ass.

Working it in with gentle, firm presses, until it's seated entirely inside him, stretching him and making him feel so hot and full. Jeremy gives a few tugs on the little fuzzy tail that dangles from the base of the plug. The vibration of that motion makes Waylon shiver, but it stays inside.

Jeremy makes him sit up, a feat that's hard to do with that _thing_ in his ass. Maybe that's the point, because it's far more comfortable to stand on his knees and hands. All fours, like a good pet. Jeremy slips a headband through his hair to complete the look, teasingly scratching his scalp behind where the two perky puppy-like ears sit on the band.

“Good boy.” Jeremy says to him and Waylon wriggles a little, which makes him whine a little as the toy shifts inside him.

Jeremy moves his hand to scratch at Waylon's jaw and chin. Then trails his fingers down his throat to the collar, flicking the tag that dangles from it. Waylon still doesn't know what it says, but whatever it is he agrees to it fully.

“You're all mine, aren't you, pup?” Jeremy says so low and darkly it sends spikes of excitement into Waylon's bloodstream.

“Yes.” Waylon practically groans, wiggling his hips again to get another rush of pleasure from the plug.

“Yes?” Jeremy runs a finger over Waylon's bottom lip.

“Yes, _Daddy_.” Waylon breathes, feeling no shame anymore.

“That's right.” Jeremy smirks. “Now, would you like a treat?”

“Yes please, Daddy.” Waylon licks his lips.

Jeremy sits down on the couch and unzips his dress pants. He pulls out his hardened cock and Waylon feels a burst of warmth in his chest at how excited Jeremy really is for this scene. It makes him feel more confident and proud, that he could be so alluring to a guy like Jeremy Blaire. He feels like he could almost do anything, even dirtier things than this.

Waylon crawls over to where Jeremy is waiting. He sits between his legs and places his hands on his knees. His “tail” falls over his socks and sitting back against his feet pushes on the base of the toy, making the pressure even harder to stand. But it feels so good, Waylon can't help but rock back and forth a little, fucking himself with the tiny adjustments.

Jeremy makes a low whistle to get his attention. Waylon whimpers, but obeys, leaning forward to lick at Jeremy's cockhead. He works up all the saliva he can. Licking and lapping all over the tip and down the bulging dorsal vein. Jeremy is appreciative, scratching behind his play “ears”.

Waylon rubs his wet lips against his shaft, all the way down. He sucks gently at Jeremy's balls, running his tongue over them, then back up to the head again. Finally, he takes the whole tip into his mouth, rolling his tongue over the slit then sliding it in fully, taking it all the way to the back of his mouth, then out.

As he bobs his mouth up and down on Jeremy's cock, Waylon rocks his hips, once again fucking himself with the buttplug. It doesn't take much, it's so big and long even the smallest bit of friction is enough to keep him feeling good. Discreetly, he lets one of his hands slide down to his own cock, palming over it and fingering a little at his urethral opening. If Jeremy knows Waylon is touching himself he doesn't say anything about it.

Waylon cums fast, so overstimulated he's honestly surprised he lasted this long. He pulls his mouth away to catch his breath. So hot and sweaty and panting. Not wanting to disappoint, he brings his hand back up. It's covered in his own cum, so he uses it as lubricant when he grabs Jeremy's cock and starts jacking him off.

Between Waylon's spit and semen, Jeremy's cock is nice and slick and soon he's cumming too. It's a strong orgasm and Waylon ends up with several lines of Jeremy's sticky cum against his face and chest. He sticks his tongue out to lick up one that landed near his mouth, looking up into Jeremy's lust-hazed eyes.

“Am I a good boy, Daddy?” Waylon smirks.

Jeremy laughs, breathless. “Very good.”


	20. Prostitution (Chris/Miles)

Chris parks his truck in front of the doctor's office to wait for Miles. It's the first Thursday of the month and that means it's Miles's therapy day. It's routine by this point. Chris uses the time to get fresh air at a nearby park. Next week will be his turn to go in and Miles will... go do whatever the hell Miles does to pass time. Probably buying used dark comedy DVDs and freaking out nosy children with his finger stubs. Again.

The way Miles practically saunters out of the building tells Chris the session must have gone well. Usually Miles is abnormally quiet and distant if things go bad. Chris smiles when his fiancé grins at him. Miles leans against the passenger door, setting his arms on the rolled-down window.

“Hey handsome, looking for some company?” Miles asks teasingly.

Chris laughs. “Sure, whatever.”

Miles finally gets inside the pickup. He leans across the front seat to plant a kiss to Chris's cheek. Then he sits back to give him a rather overdone sultry sort of look.

“My base fee is $50.” Says Miles.

“You serious?” Chris asks, skeptical. “Is this a thing we're doing?”

“Mm-hm.” Miles nods expectantly, like he expects Chris to just go with it which is pretty cognizant because Chris generally _does_ roll with his future husband's weird whims.

“Yeah, I've got like 10 bucks so...” Chris shrugs.

“Wow, I see how valuable I am.” Miles pouts, again completely over-dramatic and sarcastic.

“Hey, I didn't know we'd be doing a whole 'hooker fantasy' thing today.” Chris defends himself as he drives out of the clinic parking lot. “Would it help if I said I think you're priceless?”

Miles looks like he wants to say 'no', but he loses the battle with the smile that pulls at his mouth. “A little... Asshole.”

“I win.” Chris replies in a sing-song tone that earns him a light punch in the arm.

“Hey turn right here.” Miles says suddenly.

Chris obeys, though he's confused as to why Miles wants to turn. He'd assumed they were going to head home. He says as much to his fiancé, and Miles replies that there's a hotel nearby that he's booked for the night. Chris is so flabbergasted by this he nearly runs a stop sign and has to slam on the brakes, earning a yelp from Miles.

“Miles... We only live four blocks away!” Chris complains.

“First off, fucking give me a heart attack like that again and I'll kick your ass. Shut up, I'll find away. Secondly, stop ruining my illicit sex fantasy! You literally have nothing but benefit from this situation, jerkface.” Miles chastises him as they continue down the road.

“Jerkface?” Chris laughs again, because he can't resist thinking Miles is the most strange and hilarious person he's met. “Is that the best you got?”

“Get me to the hotel faster and I'll give you all my 'best' you can handle.” Miles grins.

Well, Chris certainly can't help but be tempted by a promising prospect like that. When they arrive the hotel is actually nicer than he expected for this side of town. He wonders how much the room cost and tries not to laugh at the fact that Miles is possibly the worst “prostitute” ever; putting himself in the red for a $10 client, fantasy or not. But it does make Chris feel appreciated, that Miles wants so much to share even his goofiest desires with him.

The room itself is pretty nice, though Chris doesn't get much time to take it in before Miles is grabbing him by the hand and leading him toward the bed. Impatient, even in his own goddamn fantasy. Chris grins bemusedly and Miles gives him a questioning look.

“What?” Miles asks.

“Nothing.” Chris grins even more and tugs Miles back toward him.

He leans in to give his fiancé a kiss, but Miles suddenly turns his head away. “No! You can't just kiss me! Jesus Christ, haven't you done this before?”

“Uh, no?” Chris blinks. “Wait, have you?”

“Fuck no!” Miles huffs. “Haven't you ever seen Pretty Woman? You go kissing hookers on the lips and next thing you know they're all in love with you and shit.”

“But, you _are_ in lo-”

“Shh. Shut up. You're ruining it again. Geeze.” Miles says, hushing Chris up by shoving his hand over his mouth. “Tonight I'm not your boyfriend, I'm your _whore_. Got it?”

Chris just nods. Not just because Miles has silenced him, but because that last line sends a shot of heat sinking into all the right places. Not only is Miles honest and funny, he's ridiculously sexy too. Suddenly, Chris is totally on board with whatever Miles has planned. Miles seems to realize that Chris is finally catching on, smiling rather seductively and moving his hand away.

“Now,” Miles begins, voice far less irritated and way more enticing. “What does my favorite customer desire?”

Chris wants to point out again that he only has ten dollars and Miles is better looking than to stoop to so low a price. But then Miles is moving backward, swaying his hips just so, giving Chris a good look at his dreadfully still-clothed body. Chris knows every addicting inch of that body. Every expanse of skin and scar tissue. It doesn't matter how many times he's seen Miles laid out naked underneath him, he can't get enough of it.

“Strip?” He says finally, kind of quiet.

Miles licks his lips. His eyes light up, like he's so happy that Chris is finally really indulging him. He nods and motions for Chris to sit on the foot of the bed. Chris does so and watches as Miles pulls out his phone and flicks around on the screen. Soon there is some seductive melody winding its way out of the device and Chris realizes Miles is actually going to honestly _strip_ for him.

It's a little absurd. If Chris thought about it in a certain way he's sure he'd probably start laughing about the whole situation again. But he's too focused on the way Miles is getting into the music and peeling off his clothes. Giving Chris a very private show. Chris doesn't know the song that's playing, but it's obvious Miles is very familiar with it. He wonders just how long Miles has been planning this little scenario.

When Miles is completely nude he doesn't stop. He steps forward, until he's mere inches from Chris's body. Close enough to feel their mingling body heat. The song is finally winding down and Chris is almost disappointed.

Then Miles leans in to whisper into Chris's ear. “Now what do you want?”

Chris draws in a deep breath. “I wanna fuck you until you can't walk.”

Miles laughs. “Oh. You can definitely do that.”

Lord, Chris wants to grab him and kiss him. As much as he enjoys everything else they do, kissing is right up there at the top. His favorite, most intimate thing. But Miles is strictly against it for this little fantasy, so Chris resists. Because another favorite thing of his is giving Miles everything he wants.

To avoid the _kissing issue_ , Chris ends up pressing Miles face down on the bed. He grabs Miles's hips and yanks them upward, making his ass stick up and forcing his chest to stay on the mattress. Chris is still fully clothed when he starts to fingerfuck Miles open. The lube Miles brought smells like bubblegum because _of course_ it does.

“Don't be so gentle.” Miles pants and it's increasingly amazing that he can still complain even with two large fingers ramming his ass. “I'm your bitch, remember?”

Chris couldn't think of Miles that way if he tried. But he can pretend, if it really turns Miles on that much.

“Then shut up.” Chris states, using his free hand to give Miles's ass a quick, hard smack.

Miles makes some ungodly, lustful noise and Chris decides he needs to get out of his clothes before he cums right then and there, holy shit. When he's undressed he returns to position himself right behind Miles. He rests his swollen cock right against Miles's ass, the tip of it resting right at his glistening, lube-slicked hole.

Miles said not to be so gentle, but Chris still worries if he goes too fast he'll hurt him. He knows his lover isn't so weak, that he's been through so much worse than a night of rough sex. In fact, he knows Miles has sort of a _thing_ for that. But Chris loves him, and despite what that terrible machine did to him he's never actually been that aggressive unless he needed to be. Even during the war he was a little too soft-hearted for combat.

“Just fuck me already.” Miles says, but he doesn't sound as agitated as Chris thinks he wants to. He watches Miles reach his hands back to grab his own ass, pulling apart the cheeks to give him even more access. “Please?”

Chris practically whimpers from the way that begging pulls right at his cock. He doesn't resist anymore. He uses his thumb to guide the head of his cock into Miles's ass, feeling how the hole stretches around him. Pants as Miles grunts and whines and shivers.

Chris pushes in and out little by little, working his cock into Miles's tight heat. He adds more lube as he goes, keeping Miles nice and slick. Soon he's a little more than halfway in. That's as far as he's willing to go, despite how much his size queen fiancé insists he can take it. That's all they need anyway, from the way Miles let go of his butt and began gripping the comforter. As well as how Chris's steady thrusts make a warm pool of pleasure roil in his hips and abdomen.

His heart is thrumming heavily in his chest as he fucks Miles. It thrills every time he draws another illicit noise from him. He's not really sure how long he lasts, but by the time he hits his orgasm, filling Miles with his cum, Miles is already deep into his own post-ejaculatory haze.

Eventually they end up laying side-by-side, sweaty and breathless. They're definitely going to need a shower, but for now it's nice just to rest. Miles moves closer, smiling dizzily and satisfied. He rests a head on Chris's shoulder, then holds out a hand.

“My payment, good sir?” Miles says.

“Seriously?” Chris snorts out a laugh, rolling his eyes when Miles nods. “Okay, fine.”

Chris rolls over and reaches around on the floor for his pants. He digs out his wallet, finds his $10 bill, then rolls back over to hand it to Miles. Miles grins happily, looking over the note. Then he hands it back.

“Here you go, dinner's on me.” He beams.

“Really?” Chris shakes his head, absolutely in awe at how ridiculous Miles is.

“I saw a Taco Bell on the corner. I want a smothered burrito, please. Thanks, babe.” Miles pats Chris patronizingly on the head.

“I can't believe you.” Chris chuckles, already moving to get up.

“Love you.” Miles says, quickly leaning in to finally give Chris a kiss square on the mouth.

“Love you too.” Sighs Chris, happily.


	21. Double Penetration (Eddie/Waylon/Miles)

If Waylon wondered before why he and Miles decided to become Eddie's sexual _playthings,_ he certainly didn't have an explanation for why they did it _again_. This really wasn't the best time to have an existential crisis over it. Pinned on his back on an actual, honest-to-god, fuck-swing, Waylon has more pressing concerns.

Like how Miles is swallowing his dick so easily it almost makes him feel emasculated, for one.

Eddie is the one holding the swing still, however. He's leaning down, using the chains of it for leverage, to give Waylon a kiss. It's not very romantic, a heated and lustful thing. It makes Waylon's chest melt anyway, sending sparks from his throat right down into his cock.

Suddenly Miles isn't sucking him off fast enough and Waylon grabs him by his soft, slightly damp hair. Miles makes some muffled noise, but Waylon silences it with a few hard upward thrusts down Miles's throat. He almost feels bad being so aggressive, but Miles doesn't struggle and Waylon realizes all his bragging about having a broken gag reflex might actually be true.

Waylon's already feeling a little oversexed when Eddie makes him turn his head and he feels the head of Eddie's cock press against his mouth. Some pre-ejaculate smears against his lips. Waylon licks that away before accepting the tip into his mouth.

Eddie rolls his hips forward, though not as forceful as Waylon had been on Miles. Not that Waylon dislikes giving head, in fact he quite enjoys it. (Miles likes to tease him about being a “cumslut”, as if he has any room to talk.) He turns his body a little in the flat swing so he can have better access to Eddie's cock, letting go of Miles so he can grip the base and shove more of it into his mouth.

Miles pulls away, panting and leaving Waylon's dick so wet the air feels cold and makes him shiver. Waylon feels Miles grip his hips and he manipulates him so he's now laying flat on his stomach on the swing. A second later Miles is pressing his ass apart as much as he can with one hand and dribbling some lubricant onto his hole with the other. It's cold when it hits, drawing out another shiver and making him moan around Eddie's cock.

The lube slides down his crack and onto his balls. It tickles a little, which makes him writhe. The swing rocks for a moment before Eddie grips it tighter to keep it still. Waylon's heart skips a beat, suddenly worried the whole goddamn thing will break away from the ceiling at any moment. The worry is not so great it makes him want to stop sucking Eddie off, however.

He only stops when he feels Miles pushing his cock inside him. Pulling away to groan and grip a hand at the edge of the swing. His knuckles go white because the stretch is so constant and aching. Not too painful, not enough to make him tell Miles to stop. He bears it because right now he wants it so bad. Wants it to kind of hurt. Wants to be used and fucked raw.

Ah, maybe that's why he keeps ending up in these situations after all.

Miles starts fucking him. It's only slow for a moment, because Miles is almost as impatient as he his. Waylon makes hot, encouraging noises, wanting it as hard as he can stand. Even harder. His nerves are already fraying, but he wants to be completely unraveled.

He feels one of Eddie's hands smack his jaw, which serves to get his attention. Waylon eagerly goes back to licking and sucking on Eddie's cock. Eddie also seems impatient too, because he grabs onto Waylon's jaw with one hand and starts fucking his mouth and throat without anymore pretense.

Waylon gets lost in the feeling of getting fucked from both ends. With Eddie gripping his jaw, the swing has more give. It doesn't swing a lot, just enough to give more fluidity to their movements. Enough to help Miles bury his cock deeper into Waylon, making every long stroke along his prostate feel like its own mini orgasm. The restriction to his breathing from how hard and fast Eddie fucks his mouth adds to his delirium.

By the time Miles pumps his cum inside him, Waylon has already cum and turned into a flushed hot, sweating, pliable mess on the swing. He's dizzy and satisfied and almost certain he's never going to recover. When Eddie cums in his mouth he makes the most pitiful attempt to swallow before just letting it fall out of his mouth.

It rolls down his chin, sticky and bitter, mixed with his slobber and rolling down his neck. He's panting so hard his tongue is resting on his bottom lip. He lazily starts to circuit the tip of it around his lips, spreading Eddie's cum more rather than cleaning it up.

“What a sight you are.” Eddie says adoringly.

“Told you he's a slut for it.” Miles chuckles, pressing a kiss to the back of Waylon's neck.

And Waylon thinks maybe he's right after all.


	22. Glory Hole (Miles/???)

Miles has always been a bit adventurous when it came to sex. The same adrenaline rush he gets from investigations plays well into his sexual appetite.

The situation he found himself in currently, however, was admittedly weird. Especially since he'd actually paid to have this opportunity. Hey, what else was he supposed to say when offered the chance to see something he'd only seen in videos online?

It's some backroom operation in the seedy club he's been drinking in. Some handsome thing coerced him into this and Miles is a little disappointed in himself at how easily tempted he his by a cute mouth and nice ass. That guy doesn't actually provide the services he's selling! What a load...

Miles has been sitting in this booth for about 5 minutes, fully clothed and warily eyeing the rather crudely carved-out hole on one side of the wall. Jesus fucking Christ. He still can't believe this is a real thing people do. Can't believe he spent $25 to stare at a glory hole. Well, he could be actually using it for its intended purpose.

He's supposed to just, what? Stick his dick in there and hope for the best? Ideally a blowjob from a stranger but who can be sure? There could be a gremlin in there for all he knows!

He leans down enough to try and peek through the hole. Trying to get some sort of glimpse at whoever he could be potentially sticking his penis into. It's only common courtesy, right?

No luck. There's some sort of cloth covering the opening, assuring whoever it is total anonymity. Miles realizes maybe the poor sap on the other side actually paid to be on the receiving end of this insane operation.

“This is weird!” Miles shouts out loud.

From the other side comes a nervous sort of laugh. “Yeah...”

Well, at least the other guy sounds just as freaked out as he is. “Sorry, I've never done this shit before.”

“Me either...” Says the other. “I'm... nervous.”

Miles sighs a little, actually feeling a little relieved. “Well, don't worry. I won't actually, you know. Stick 'Junior' in there for a friendly handshake.”

“Oh...” The guy says and Miles can't believe he sounds disappointed. “Well, if you change your mind.”

Miles feels his mouth go dry and a flood of heat in his groin. What the fuck. _What the fuck_.

“You're really... You wanna do this?” Miles asks.

“I mean...” The guy seems anxious and he sounds kind of cute. Miles wonders if he looks as attractive as he sounds. “We're already in for $50 here, might as well?”

“Well, fuck, okay.” Miles breathes, shifting a little on the bench. He can't believe a minute ago he was ready to leave and now he's getting hard. What a world.

He strips out of his pants and underwear. He gives his dick a few strokes, trying to shove off his embarrassment in order to get harder. Who knows what kind of secretly coded insult it is to shove your half-limp wiener into a glory hole? Last thing he wants to do is accidentally insult someone.

But the other guy is new to this too. For some reason that's a little thrilling. It's been a very long time since Miles was new to anything. It's almost a virginal type of feeling. God, he hopes he doesn't accidentally cum prematurely this time.

It's awkward. Holy shit it's so awkward. They've both been quiet a few minutes and Miles can only imagine what's happening on the other side. What his little “astronaut” is about to encounter in the “great beyond”. Fuck.

Finally he lines up his dick with the hole, but hesitates again. Should he say something? Give some sort of warning? Hell, he doesn't know how any of this works.

“Uh...” Miles stalls for a moment. “Incoming?”

He carefully shoves his dick through and feels a little flushed when the other guy bursts out laughing. He hopes he's laughing at the joke he said and not the joke that is his dick. (Not that Miles is exactly lacking, but he's a size man himself and therefore finds himself wholly inadequate.)

Apparently the other man disagrees because soon Miles feels fingers and a palm running along his dick. This is followed by a mouth. Oh, what a mouth. If this guy hasn't done this particular kind of thing, he's almost certainly sucked cock before. Miles has to hold on to the top of the partition just to keep standing up because this guy is sucking all of his motor skills out through his dick.

Miles is proud to report he lasted an entire 5 minutes, which is 4 minutes longer than when he actually lost his virginity, thank you.

He's barely got the wits to pull his pants back up when he hears the door on the other side open and close. Did that guy seriously just up and leave? Miles at least wanted to thank him or something, jeeze.

Miles quashes the disappointment, looking down to make sure his clothes are back in order. That's when he notices something shiny on the floor. A card. He picks it up and realizes it's the keycard to a hotel room, the room number written on the protective sleeve with a small heart doodled on it. The guy must have slipped it under the divider.

Miles grins.

Best $25 he ever spent.


	23. Shibari (Eddie/Waylon)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one is late! I had some Personal Problems(TM) to deal with! I hope you guys can forgive me. I'll try to get today's fic in soon too so I can get back on schedule!

The rope doesn't dig and burn the way Waylon assumed rope would. Even when he struggles and tries to twist his limbs it doesn't hurt. Stays taught but doesn't slide tighter. Pinned, but his circulation is fine. It isn't typical hardware store stuff. He feels a warm tingle crawl up his spine when he realizes this rope was made specifically for this purpose.

It wasn't simple, to get these binds to fit this way. Not a simple restraining of his arms and legs. The rope makes an intricate web of lines and knots across his naked body. Every inch of him bound into some sick art display.

Even his dick has one loop of rope strung under his sack. It's attached to another delicate weaving around his waist. There's something else there too, a thin but strong ring of metal that he's way too familiar with and makes him far too excited. Every time he moves the rope shifts against his thin, sensitive skin down there. Doesn't hurt, but the fact he feels pleasure from it is almost worse.

Behind him he feels hands finishing off a tie at this tailbone. It feels like it's been hours since this started. Likely has. Eddie is always a man at two extremes of patience, and today his perfectionism is winning out. He's turning Waylon into his twisted little masterpiece.

He knew his partner was pretty crafty, but this is ridiculous.

Then again, Waylon is the one who agreed to try it.

Eddie's final addition to the web is a weaving of rope around Waylon's neck, knotted to the one at his sternum. Again not too tight, but it spikes his pulse anyway. Still the threat of danger seizes his heart. What if Waylon moves too much and one of the knots comes loose? What if he ends up strangling himself? What a way to go...

Oh God, why is he getting turned on thinking about choking himself to death...

He swears he used to think like a normal person.

That was before he met Eddie.

But he trusts Eddie.

Eddie, who is currently running his fingers along the rope at his neck, where it meets his skin. Calculated touches, warm brushes over the spaces between the binds. Waylon's skin feels hypersensitive. He can hardly move, from the combination of the rope and the thrill and wanting to impress. Wanting to be exactly what Eddie needs him to be.

Is he the medium or model? Just a display? Anything. He'll accept anything to keep feeling the fiery charge of Eddie's touch.

Suddenly he feels so drunk. High. Malleable. Willing. He wasn't resistant before, but this is different. He's less an individual and more a canvas for Eddie to paint out all his deep and sometimes scary fantasies.

Waylon would be lying if he said this wasn't his favorite part of their eclectic sex life.

Not losing his control, but giving it away freely.

Eddie kisses an exposed part of his shoulder between the ropes. This is bondage and dominance and submission but it's not a painful thing. Not something in so many books and movies and instruction manuals. Soft and warm and relatively safe.

Not that Waylon is against that other stuff. Not that he hasn't thought about it. Not that he doesn't secretly want it. That he hopes this gentle trust and experimentation will lead to greater, more dangerous things.

He thinks he used to be normal, but now he's not so sure.

Eddie easily moves him around, the position of his binds not restricting important joints like his knees and hips. He's made to kneel forward. Face down on the bed. Eddie shoves a pillow under his chest for cushioning. Waylon's heart leaps and he feels so warm. So at mercy to Eddie's whims.

The pillow is huge and comfortable. Large enough to reach down his body length and put pressure on his cock. He wants to rut against it, but he can't. He whines a little and Eddie laughs behind him.

Then there is something pressed against him, sliding against his asshole. He thrills for it, first thinking it's Eddie's cock. It's not, too silky and smooth. Silicone. Some toy. Waylon wants it all the same. Wants to grind back against it. But he can't move. Mercy, please.

Eddie flips some switch and the tip of the toy buzzes against his hole. Waylon tightens instinctively, then forces himself to relax. To take the shiver through his nerves. To be welcoming and enticing and pray again for Eddie's clemency.

There's a warm wetness to it suddenly. So much fancy lube some of it dribbles onto the sheets between his legs. Waylon takes a deep breath and Eddie shoves the vibrator in fully. Waylon cries out, tensing his fingers and toes. But he doesn't tell him to stop. No, he wants more. Wants Eddie to fuck him with it. Wants it to vibrate even harder. Fantasizes how it would feel to have Eddie's cock and the toy crammed side by side inside him.

Suddenly there's another rope, slipped through the loop by his balls. Next to the vice that is currently ensuring he won't cum until Eddie says he can. Eddie slides it up his crack, making sure it's tight against the base of the vibrator, then tying it into the knot at his tailbone.

There's a sensation on his left asscheek. Teeth. A hard bite that he knows will leave a mark.

“Be good while I'm away, Darling.” Says Eddie.

“What?” Pants Waylon.

The only reply is the click of the bedroom door closing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To Be Continued~


	24. Exhibitionism/Voyeurism (Eddie/Waylon/Miles)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say? I'm super into these three for some reason, y'all.

Waylon loses track of time. Being tied up and bent over with a vibrator shoved up his ass kind of fucked with his sense of time and space. Has it been minutes or hours since Eddie left? Don't know, don't care. He can barely think but for the constant mantra that he is going to kill Eddie. Probably a bad idea, since his lover is more enormous than he is in every conceivable way. But Waylon has other ways to punish the goon for leaving him so aching to fuck and overstimulated.

He's going to ground Eddie from sex for _months_.

He can't move. Can't sleep. Can't cum. Can't do anything but plot his revenge and try to ignore how weird it feels that his ass and prostate are virtually numb from the constant vibration. The fuck is Eddie doing to be gone so long? Is it Tuesday? Oh _goddamnit_ if Eddie really left him bound and hard so he won't miss Bingo Night at the church across the street...

Suddenly a door slams open and Waylon feels incrementally relieved. Until he realizes the person standing in his bedroom door frame isn't Eddie. Waylon tenses then, recognizing that face and cocky smirk, growls. Simultaneously annoyed, relieved, and confused. A natural state to be in when Miles Upshur breaks into your apartment. _Again._

Miles grins and lets out a low, appreciating whistle. “Wow.”

“Oh my god...” Waylon means to sound exasperated but he's mostly embarrassed.

It's not the first time Miles has caught him in a compromising position though. They've been friends a long time. If Waylon was feeling particularly sentimental he'd even call Miles his best friend. The kind of guy who can walk in on him tied up with a painful erection and a dildo up his ass and think it's great. The kind of guy Waylon occasionally shares his sort-of-boyfriend with without a single drop of jealousy or distrust.

The kind of guy who apparently walks in unannounced and immediately decides he wants to fingerbang his best friend because _why not_.

Waylon's butthole feels numb until Miles loosens the rope holding the vibe in and slides it out. The moment he feels it moving Waylon sobs. Sobs! Because it suddenly fills him with such a blistering rush through his limbs. After having the vibration at such a constant rate in the same spot every deviation feels like warm honey. He shivers and groans and curses, knowing his face and neck and shoulders are just as red hot as they feel. The room is so hot it's almost suffocating.

Miles doesn't even turn the toy off, just tosses it aside. It rolls back to the dip in the bed and buzzes wetly against Waylon's knee. He's about to complain when he feels Miles shove a finger into him. All the way until his palm is flush with his wet and aching hole.

“Daaamn.” Miles observes so intelligently, pulling out and then shoving in two fingers. “He's got your little cunt all ready for the taking, Way.”

“ _Miles_.” Waylon breathes, begging, wanting.

God, he just wants to cum. He doesn't care who it is or what it takes. Please just let him cum before he goes insane.

“I was watching, y'know.” Miles muses as he lazily fucks Waylon's slick hole with his fingers. “Sad you guys didn't invite me over. But I guess my place really does have a five-star view.”

Waylon rubs his flushed face against the mattress. It's one of the few things he can do with his arms bound behind his back and in the face-down position he's in.

He thinks about Miles standing in his own apartment across the street. Imagines him getting off to watching him and Eddie tonight, and so many nights before. Thinks about how many others have watched them when Eddie accidentally leaves the blinds open. Wonders if that's an accident at all.

“Miles, please.” Waylon gasps.

“Hm?” Miles sounds so entertained, the asshole. But his other hand slides over Waylon's too-taut sack, fingering along his aching, hot cock. Dipping back to the vice, brushing along the seam.

“Please let me cum. _Please._ ” Waylon begs.

“Well-”

“Don't you dare.” Another voice cuts Miles off.

They both look at Eddie, who thankfully doesn't seem angry or even surprised. More intrigued. That's almost a little scarier.

“Enjoying the show?” Miles asks with a chuckle as he removes his fingers from both Waylon's ass and dick.

_God-fucking-damnit._

“Oh, quite.” Eddie actually smiles and Waylon can't see but he can just tell he and Miles are sharing one of _those_ looks again. “Guests first?”

“Hell yeah!” Miles sounds absolutely giddy and gives Waylon's already abused ass a quick slap.

Waylon groans and decides neither of them are getting sex again for at least a month.

At least Miles is the most impatient of the three of them. He's already got his cock buried inside Waylon's ass before Eddie's walked across the rest of the bedroom.

His thrusts are hard and deep and fast. Miles can be such a sweet guy, honestly, but with sex he's just as loud and frenetic as most anything else. Waylon doesn't usually complain about that either. Sometimes it's nice to have someone willing to fuck with most of their clothes on in the 5 minutes they can during a busy day.

Eddie goes to the large bedroom window. For a second Waylon feels relieved, thinking he's finally going to close the blinds. Instead he opens them more, yanking the cord so they completely roll up. He does the same to the other window on the opposite side of the bed. Waylon feels his skin crawl and he looks away, not wanting to see if anyone else is actually watching them.

Miles must think fucking Waylon raw for an audience is the hottest thing ever, because not long after their exposure he's yanking his dick out and shooting sticky jets of cum all over Waylon's ropes and spine. He's not even cleaned up when Eddie is manipulating him again, maneuvering him into his lap. Waylon's knee and hip joints ache, so he actually welcomes the adjustments.

Once Miles recovers he helps Eddie get Waylon positioned. Loosening what ropes need to be loosed in order for Waylon to straddle Eddie. Eddie's got both hands on his face, giving Waylon a long and admiring kiss. It must be Miles, then, who is carefully helping to guide Eddie's cock into him.

Eddie is more mindful and calculated. Always seeking deeper, more intense pleasures for both of them. That's how this rope thing came about in the first place. Miles is always on board to participate, but it's Eddie who makes it happen. He's not always patient, but more often is when it comes to sex.

Really, Waylon loves both of the ways these two men fuck him.

It's gonna be a very long month.

Waylon's patience is at his end now, though. So when Eddie leans into his ear and whispers “Ride me”, Waylon's heart races and he uses all the strength he has to bounce hard and heavy on Eddie's cock. Because if he's good, if he does it right, Eddie will let him finally cum. Fuck he wants to earn that privilege.

Miles helps, sliding behind Waylon to give him something solid to lean against. Leverage for his rocking hips and straining thighs. Miles whispers heinous, filthy words of encouragement in his ear and leaves hickies on his neck so hard Waylon wonders if they're bleeding. Eddie is kissing and biting at his chest, laving his polite tongue over one of his nipples. Making well-timed upward thrusts in time with Waylon's riding.

Eddie grips his hips so crushingly Waylon shouts, stilling as Eddie fills him with his cum. Miles eases Waylon's face to look at him and gives him a deep, surprisingly slow kiss, all tongue and warm breath. He feels Miles's hand slide around him, down his front, over the rope.

He easily flicks open the lock around Waylon's dick and balls. Barely grazes Waylon's shaft before he's doubling over, cumming in sustained waves against Eddie. Twitching and groaning and panting so fiercely he thinks his brain is short circuiting. Thinks he's going to die it's so relieving. Feels so fucking good.

Eddie's laughing a little, holding Waylon there and letting him recover from the sparks and heat pricking goosebumps over his skin. Miles is pressing kisses against his skin, untying the ropes and kissing every new bit of sore flesh. Waylon can feel the curve of his smile against him.

Assholes. He's fucking two amazingly hot, sexually deviant assholes.

Maybe two weeks will be long enough...

 


	25. Sounding (Jeremy/Waylon)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is for Little_RedHots_Riding_Hood~

Waylon has known for a while that Jeremy likes to watch him masturbate. It's almost mundane compared to the increasingly filthy, kinky things they do. No, not mundane. Because the way Jeremy looks at him so intensely makes it so much more than Waylon jerking off.

How he watches Waylon stroke his own cock, brushing his palm over the head, thumbing at the slit to spread around his precum. That stare makes it feel like Jeremy is on him, directing him wordlessly to stroke harder, faster. To use his other hand to finger himself. To lick his own cum from his fingers, staring deep into those powerful eyes.

They've been together, whatever this relationship is, for six months when Jeremy points out something Waylon never noticed before. That when Waylon masturbates he lingers at his slit, puts pressure on his urethra. It's strange in that Waylon didn't think it was strange. He said he thought it was normal. It feels good, so he assumed all guys did that. Jeremy assuages him, saying yes, a lot of guys do.

That's when Waylon learns about sounding.

At first he's appalled. It sounds horrible and weird. Painful. Grotesque. The same feeling he gets when he thinks about genital piercings or dick tattoos. He doesn't think he could ever do something so gross and embarrassing.

Then again, he never thought he'd be into a lot of things they do. Things he actually looks forward to now. Some things he even craves. Private dirty things that would make Waylon's conservative parents disown him all over again. Or make them pine for the days when the most offensive thing he did was get caught jerking it to pictures of boy bands in Teen Beat.

He almost laughs when he realizes there's a horrible pun there.

Still, Waylon doesn't think he'll like it. But he says he'll consider it. Because Jeremy isn't always right, as much as he likes to think he is, but when it comes to their love life he's pretty perceptive. Even if it's less about Waylon's pleasure and more something Jeremy wants to do to him for his own. Those don't have to be mutually exclusive, though.

Waylon researches sounds during his lunch break. Reads up on safety and sanitation. Reads sex ed blogs giving others advice on which rods do what and how to put them in. Also reads seedier things, confessions and anonymous stories about men who enjoy it, what it feels like, how hard it makes them cum.

Waylon reads the stories on his phone while he jerks off in the bathroom, his index finger pressing down even harder on his slit as he imagines what it would feel like to fuck that tiny hole with a smooth, warm metal rod.

He's tingling with anxiety when he tells Jeremy he's ready to try it. Throat dry and heart threatening to bust through his rib cage. Jeremy can tell, by the shiver in his voice or the pink heat on his nose and ears or the way he stares at the floor. He's so gentle, unexpectedly so, when he kisses Waylon. When he says he hoped he'd come around to it. That he always has his best interest in mind.

Someday Waylon will no longer believe that, but tonight he does.

He's astonished that Jeremy already has the tools for it. Some fancy wood and leather box. The sounds are shiny and new and clean. Such small things that seem so intimidating laying in the box on their bed. How long had Jeremy saved this little surprise, he wonders. Was sounding something Jeremy did to himself too?

Waylon is chewing his bottom lip, looking at them. So Jeremy redirects his attention, pulling him into another kiss. He tells Waylon they can stop any time. Always says this, though he must know Waylon has trouble denying him. That Waylon has always wanted to please Jeremy, long before that had anything to do with the bedroom.

Jeremy is so slow and patient this time. Affectionate touches and kisses. Taking time to take off their clothes and appreciate Waylon's body with his hands and mouth. In the back of his mind Waylon knows it's partly a coaxing to get him to relax so they can get to the main event. But it feels so good and kind and warm. Feels like Jeremy really cares beyond his willingness to indulge his fantasies.

Jeremy's fantasies often become Waylon's fantasies too.

Jeremy takes Waylon's cock into his hand. It doesn't take much to get him hard, as sensitive as he is from these embraces. Waylon could be so fine if all Jeremy did was stroke him. Could get off on just that alone. But there is a buzz of anticipation at the back of his skull. He remembers the stories he read in that diminutive bathroom stall and there's a burst of warmth in his chest.

Jeremy's hands leave Waylon's newly erect cock to grab the lubricant from the kit. He slicks some over the head, carefully circuiting the slit. Waylon writhes when Jeremy puts some pressure against his urethra. Somehow it feels even more sensitive because Jeremy is doing it.

“Try to stay still.” Jeremy says, leaning in to give him another kiss.

Waylon nods minimally, letting out a hot sigh against Jeremy's mouth. He feels high. Adrenaline or whatever else spiking in his nerves. Heated so peculiarly. Feels dizzy as he watches Jeremy warms the metal in his palm, then carefully coat one of the sounds liberally with lubricant.

Takes a deep, uneven breath as Jeremy slips his finger in the loop at one end of the thin sound, then carefully nudges it into the slit at the tip of Waylon's cock. Waylon makes a strangled sound as it slides in. It doesn't hurt at all, slipping down into his urethra smooth and easy. His cock feels so strangely full. It's so weird.

Fuck, it's so weird. Not exactly uncomfortable, but not comfortable either. Full and almost tingly. Jeremy's finger rests against his cockhead through the stopper loop. His other fingers gently brush against Waylon's shaft.

“You okay?” Jeremy asks after a moment, like he's also lost track of time watching Waylon's reaction.

“It's-” Waylon cuts himself off when Jeremy starts to pull back on the rod.

It feels so warm and hard and full, and pulling back on it feels so oddly good. So relieving. Almost like urinating after a long car trip but not. There's no accurate description, other than Waylon wants more.

He grabs Jeremy's wrist before he pulls the whole thing out. Stilling him. Panting. He pulls on Jeremy's hand, encouraging him to slide the sound back into his cock. Wanting to feel his slit stuffed full again. Wanting...

“Fuck me with it.” Waylon says, a red hot blush flooding his face instantly in shame.

Jeremy chuckles and it makes Waylon feel even more ashamed. But then he slips the rod back into Waylon's cock and Waylon moans. Tries to stay still as Jeremy makes the sound slide in and out, slow and careful.

Waylon lets his own fingers ghost over his shaft. Not grabbing and jerking off but adding to the stimulation. Lets his other hand slide down to play with his balls. Wanting more touch. More stimulation. Wants to feel so undone.

He thinks about the other things he read. How some sounds are even longer. Wider. More curved. Imagines what those would feel like stuffed inside his cock.

He's going to cum.

“Jeremy...” He breathes.

Knowing, Jeremy suddenly pulls the rod out, steady and fast. Waylon arches after it and his cum shoots out, following it, as if Jeremy pulled his cum right out from within him. Waylon pants and strokes his cock, hard and fast, rough. Draining so much cum. Gets it everywhere. Doesn't care.

He flops back against the bed, panting. Hand still on his dick. Sweating and hot and lost. Feels Jeremy crawling over him. Leaving bites and kisses on his oversensitive skin.

Waylon doesn't have to tell him he was right.

 


	26. Shotgunning (Miles/Waylon)

It's 2:00PM and Miles is sitting on a bench outside the clinic where he receives therapy. Eight sessions per month, varying from personal to groups. He hates it. He doesn't actually have to go. More of a helpful suggestion from those handling his protection case. But he shows up every time.

Because even though he hates having people rooting around in his head, has a deep distrust for these medicos after what he's seen, he likes what comes after. Waylon's sessions end at 2:15PM. And Waylon is literally the only person who understands, who experienced that awful shit hole asylum, and still has some semblance of lucidity. He lets out a sigh and gives an empty prayer-like thought to those few other survivors who went from the Shit Hole into confinement elsewhere.

So many people lost so many things that night and after. Miles lost things too, not just his fingers and his already threadbare trust of the mental health system. He can't even imagine the loss Waylon felt when he decided not to enter the same protection case as his family. It was luck or coincidence or fucking voodoo magic that they ended up in the same city.

Everyone lost something, but Miles gained Waylon. Finally a credit to the enormous pile of debt in his fucked up life.

He's sure Waylon doesn't think so highly of him, but that's okay.

Waylon heads out at 2:14PM. Miles stands up to greet him, noting the redness in his sclera and wetness of his lashes. He doesn't say anything about it. It's not his business to ask if he's okay, besides he already knows the answer. His business is to do anything but give his only friend useless bullshit platitudes.

Waylon calls him Alex. Miles calls Waylon Michael. Protection names. Their real names are a shared secret not even their doctors know. An inside joke. Shared in close whispers and pathetic cries behind triple-locked apartment doors.

The city is hot as they walk towards said apartment. Miles's this time because it's closer. By the time they make it inside they're red faced and sweating. The apartment is sparse, furniture salvaged from thrift stores. He's not exactly broke, getting a monthly check from the government and using his writing skills working for some of the less shady content farms online. But Miles doesn't like to buy more than he needs. Waylon is the same, though his place is much more clean.

Miles doesn't hesitate to peel off his shirt as he goes to turn on the small window-sill AC. Waylon bolts and locks the door, twice for each lock. It used to be five times, so Miles actually feels proud of him. By the time Waylon joins him on the couch, Miles is already pulling out a small, familiar box from under the coffee table.

He pauses, looking to Waylon. “Wanna?”

Waylon shakes his head but doesn't show much more reaction. “Go ahead.”

It's not that Miles has always been some slovenly drugged out fuck, at least not since college. It's not like he was a saint before either. It's that now this actually helps beyond the typical stress-relief. Plus medical usage is legal in Arizona for PTSD. (It was even more legal in Colorado, but that's not the point.)

In short, the pills don't work, but pot does.

Helps him sleep and eat and not have a psychotic break every time he has to go to the fucking grocery store.

He's not supposed to share but like fuck would he deny Waylon if he asked. He knows his friend has more tremendous traumas than he does. Knows Waylon takes handfuls of meds that barely get him through the day. Has had to pull him from an open window or yank him back from the edge of the road when they're walking. He's not sure how deep that urge to self-destruct is, but if it's anything like Miles's own it's too much.

They've been watching TV for an hour when he notices Waylon eyeing his pipe on the coffee table. The apartment is hazy and the bowl is half done. Miles feels good. Well, better. Not as irritable. He's relaxed and warm and his skin feels sensitive to the cool air blowing from the vent.

He wants Waylon to feel better too. So he tells him to take a hit already. But Waylon shakes his head, saying he can't. Right. The pipe is too harsh, Miles knows because he's watched him try and sputter and cough and complain.

Well, they both know there are other ways.

“Okay then.” Miles says, smirking and smirking wider when Waylon suddenly acts bashful about it.

Miles takes a hit, much smaller than his usual, and motions for Waylon. For all his sudden coyness, Waylon barely hesitates to lean in. His lips are always soft, warm against Miles's mouth. Miles almost forgets to breathe out. It seems like Waylon almost forgot to breathe in.

When the hit finally passes, Waylon doesn't choke. Breathes it in deeply and lets it out with a sigh. The smoke curls between and around them. Miles watches him a moment, how his features soften and his eyelashes rest against his pink cheeks. Miles smiles, takes another hit, and leans in, nudging his mouth open with his lips. Waylon draws in his breath. When he goes to pull away, Miles dares to lick his tongue just once inside his mouth.

Waylon doesn't hold it as long this time, mostly because he's fighting a grin. Miles can't even offer another hit before Waylon is sliding a hand against his cheek and going in for a real kiss. Miles laughs at the back of his throat, feeling a hot rush spiral in his navel.

Kissing Waylon high is almost as nice as kissing him sober.

When this wears off Miles will have to compare the two again.

Waylon practically crawls into his lap, continuously giving him soft kisses that grow deeper once he's straddled him. Fingers on either side of his jaw, holding him in place as if he'd ever pull away. As if he could resist the one thing that makes him feel so close to whole.

Miles can tell Waylon is already feeling it. Thinks it's cute how low his tolerance is. He often wonders why Waylon doesn't just apply for his own medical card, but thinks Waylon prefers to get his high this way. Shotgunning it from Miles's mouth because it always leads to this. _Dummy_ , Miles thinks, _I'd give you anything you want._

Waylon grinds his hips against Miles. Slow circles and rolls with groans swallowed by lazy tongues. Miles bites Waylon's bottom lip and pulls back. Waylon chases his mouth so Miles gently shoves him back, countering his slight pout by hitting the pipe again. Waylon grins then and steals the smoke again. Breathes it out into the kiss, giving it back.

They're both hard as hell. Miles can't stand the tight friction anymore. So he sets the pipe and lighter aside so he can undo his own button and fly. Waylon's engrossed in the warm melting and melding of their kisses, so Miles does him a favor and pulls his cock free too.

He doesn't want to get up, feeling so perfectly comfortable and horny as fuck with Waylon's rutting making their cocks rub together. Miles improvises, parting from Waylon's mouth one last time to wet his palm with as much spit as he can draw up. It's not ideal but he can make it work, like always.

Miles takes both of them in his hand, stroking up and down slowly. Waylon shivers against him. Rubs his hands over Miles's chest and arms. Savoring the heightened sensitivity. Miles laughs when Waylon starts biting and sucking at his neck because it feels good and tickles and makes his heartbeat thrum in his chest.

He strokes faster, not wanting his impromptu “lubricant” to dry too fast. Wants to make Waylon cum because every time he does he looks like the hottest fucking thing Miles has ever seen. Waylon makes lewd noises against his skin, rutting into his hand. Fucking the pressure of his grip. Miles tightens it and lets Waylon set the pace.

It should be embarrassing how fast they both get off. One thing to blame the high on. Waylon continues to rub his hot face against Miles's neck after he's shot his cum all over Miles's hand and abdomen. Miles grabs his discarded shirt off the back of the couch and cleans them up. Tosses it aside and knocks off the pipe and lighter to the floor so Waylon doesn't have to move. Nothing else matters in the hazy afterglow. He grabs Waylon by the ass and shifts their bodies so he can lay down, using the couch arm as a pillow and letting Waylon lay against his chest. Waylon makes a happy sort of noise, snuggling in sleepily.

Miles watches their smoke swirling in the glow of the TV and the sunlight pushing through the curtains.

And he thinks about the things he's lost. Who he's gained. How so much has changed.

It's still not okay.

But it's getting better.

 


	27. Branding (Eddie/Waylon)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This one contains a rape fantasy so if that's not your thing I suggest you skip this chapter!
> 
> Also this is for jikaishe~

He doesn't know how late it is when he hears the window slide open. The frame is creaky and sticks, so it makes a lot of noise. Waylon stirs in his bed, having been asleep for at least some hours. He was anxious earlier, but managed to rest. He knows he needs it. He barely has time to roll over when there's a strong hand pressed tight over his mouth.

He shouts even if it's muffled and unhelpful. In the darkness of the room he can barely make out the intimidating form over him. The man is wearing some sort of half-mask over his mouth and nose, though Waylon can make out his eyes in the moonlight. Piercing and determined. Dangerous. A hot spike of panic drives through Waylon's chest and he struggles, flailing his legs wildly and clutching at the man's wrist.

The man uses his free hand to smack him, sharp and stinging, leaving an angry red mark across his cheek. The force makes Waylon's head snap to the side. It frees his mouth so he cries out, only to receive another harsh hit. His attacker says something, muffled behind the cloth covering his mouth. It's threatening all the same.

Waylon continues to struggle. Grunting and snarling and writhing. There's a sudden, thin pressure against his throat. He freezes. Panting, his throat bobs dangerously against the sharp blade. His heart thrums hard, he can feel his pulse beating through his skin against his white t-shirt.

The man manipulates his frozen body, flipping him over onto his stomach. Yanks his hands roughly behind his back. The knife is off his neck, but he doesn't know where it is now, so he doesn't move. Some sort of bind is wrapped around his wrists. Feels like wire.

“Please don't...” Waylon begs, voice ragged. “You can have whatever you want-”

The man seethes through his mask, telling him to shut up. There's a tight grip on the back of his neck and the attacker shoves his face into the pillows. Waylon panics, breath hitching and panting. Not good, it depletes his oxygen, makes the material pressing against his mouth and nose hot and unbearable. Suffocating. He starts to feel dizzy.

Suddenly the pressure is off and Waylon arches up fast, gasping. He can barely reorient himself when something covers his mouth again. It's pulled tight, some sort of cloth, forced against his lips until his teeth cut into the inside of his mouth. He forces his mouth open and the cloth is wrenched between his teeth and secured in place.

His tongue tastes copper. He feels blood from inside his lips soaking into the gag.

The blade is back suddenly, this time scraping dangerously over his tailbone under his shirt. Not cutting in but so close. Any twitch or too-deep breath and it could bite in. His attacker lifts it and there's a ripping sound. The back of his shirt is sliced in an upward direction, the only pause being to work around his bound arms. The air is cold on his back.

Shivering, Waylon feels the tip of the knife brush its way back down. He whimpers, chewing against the gag. It's making his mouth go dry. He wants to beg and plead, even though it's still useless.

At his hip it sinks in. Not very deep, but enough that he feels his skin pop a little. Feels hot blood flow out. Razor sharp, it doesn't hurt until the man starts to carve into it. Drawing something through his flesh, some shape Waylon cant decipher through the burning, slicing agony of it. His eyes sting and he doesn't hold back, sobbing around the gag.

His legs have been pinned tight. When his attacker moves they tingle, numb from loss of circulation. He's so full of conflicting sensations he almost doesn't feel when his sweatpants are ripped off his legs along with his underwear. Shock and dread suddenly flood his limbs in a hot wave. He starts kicking and struggling and screaming against the gag with renewed fervor.

The man grabs his legs tight, bruising. He's strong, easily slamming them back together. He binds together his knees and ankles in a matter of minutes, countering any movement Waylon makes effortlessly. Once bound, the man shoves Waylon's knees forward, so they're tucked under his stomach.

Positioned with his naked rear up in the air, there's no longer any doubt what this man is after.

Waylon tenses when he feels fingers run over his ass, a thumb pressing between to stroke over his hole. He chokes on his breath when it presses in, just to the first knuckle, but it hurts. Burns. Waylon forces himself to try and relax, because struggling now would definitely do more harm. If he lays there and accepts it maybe it will be over faster.

The attacker seems pleased when Waylon makes his body go lax. The finger is removed and Waylon sighs. Waylon hears rustling, realizing the man has shoved off his mask when he hears him spit and feels it land on his skin. Feels the man spread it over him. He knows it's not for his comfort but to aid the attacker. This intruder. This fucking rapist.

The spit helps but it's not as good as a real lubricant. When the man shoves his cockhead into him there is so much resistance, even though Waylon is trying so hard to go limp. Waylon winces against the pain. The man hisses behind him, apparently finding him too tight and too dry. Waylon feels a rush of relief when he pulls out.

But the attacker doesn't give up. Instead he throws Waylon onto his back and hoists his bound legs over one shoulder. Waylon watches him with wide eyes as he spits again in his palm and rubs it over his cock. Then he shoves it into the tight slit made by his pressed thighs. That must be adequate, because he starts thrusting steadily.

Waylon realizes he can see his face now. The intense, hungry stare that makes his stomach flip and heart pulse in panic.

He looks away, screwing his eyes shut.

The head of the man's cock rubs against Waylon's own dick and balls. A constant friction that his body responds to regardless of the situation. He gets hard from it. His throat feels tight from the mixture of unwanted pleasure and pain.

Mercifully, his attacker orgasms, spilling his cum between Waylon's shaking thighs. He shoves Waylon aside, redressing himself quickly. Waylon just lays on his side, panting, still hard, and crying. The bed shifts and he feels a hot breath on his ear. A palm against whatever was carved into his hip.

“Say a word to anyone and I'll _fucking kill you_.”

Waylon tenses, but the man leaves. Waylon feels him get off the bed. Hears him climb back out the window. Down the trellis. Footsteps outside, running away.

When he's sure he's alone again, Waylon pulls apart the binds on his wrists. They were already coming loose so it's easy. He pulls off the gag, rubbing at his sore jaw and stinging cheek. After releasing the other binds he stands, stumbling a little towards the full body-length mirror in the master bathroom. He turns to look at the wound on his hip. A superficial brand in the shape of a heart. Good, it probably won't scar.

He heads back into his room, picking up his phone from the nightstand.

 

a heart? real cute.<

>I certainly thought so

was the slapping necessary?<

>Sorry, I got a little too in character, my love.

u outside?<

>Come let me in? Also sorry about your petunias. I may have crushed them during my escape...

 

Waylon rolls his eyes, letting out a soft laugh. He doesn't bother getting dressed as he heads downstairs. When he opens the door, there stands his “attacker”, though now he can call his boyfriend by name since the scene is over.

“Eddie,” Waylon smirks, hooking his fingers in the cloth mask that's still shoved down around his neck. “Remember lube next time, you dweeb.”

Eddie grins, letting himself get lead inside and shutting the door behind him. He leans down to give Waylon a sweet, short kiss.

“Sorry again.” He says. “Are you alright?”

Waylon nods, smiling and returning another kiss.

“Good,” Says Eddie. “Now, let's go make sure that brand is cleaned up.”

“Alright,” Says Waylon, hooking his arm in Eddie's and leading him back upstairs to the bathroom.

 


	28. Paranormal (Walrider/Waylon)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains non-con/rape, gore, blood, and major character death. It's basically the sickest chapter thus far.

Waylon is seconds, literal seconds, from racing out the front door of the asylum when he feels something wrap around his ankle. He screams as it digs in to the wound that's already there. It yanks and rips his feet out from under him. His body slams forward, smacking hard against the floor. His breath is forced from his lungs. His ribs absorb so much shock, he feels it so sharply, he's certain they've broken.

Waylon tries to scramble forward, hands slipping in the deep red blood spilled in the foyer. All that really remains of his former boss, Jeremy Blaire. He makes a disgusted noise when he feels something meaty squish under his palms.

The thing holding him, that phantom, ghost... The Walrider... It pulls him back, further away from the door. Waylon makes a pleading desperate noise, watching the morning light in the open frame slowly move away from his grasp. He claws his fingers at the floor. Blunt nails find purchase on a crack, only to be yanked back, pulling them from his nail beds, stinging hot, throbbing, and bleeding.

Waylon cries out again, twisting and turning his body as if he could break the ghost's grip. He has to fight. He's so close to escaping. He's suffered so long. Too long to die now.

In one swooping motion he's lifted from the floor. Effortlessly smashed up against the wall. Waylon looks down and sees he's dangling as high as the second floor. His head is nearly touching the ceiling.

The ghost's face is so close to his. A black void. Waylon panics more, hyperventilating. The expansion and contraction of his lungs pushing his ribs ever more painfully. Sharp, stabbing pains. It's difficult to get enough oxygen. He wonders if his broken ribs are piercing his lungs. If he even managed to get away, would he just drown in his own blood?

That void shifts and for a second he can make out the outline of a human face, feral smirk and sharp-set eyes. Within the white noise it's constantly emanating he makes out a whisper of his name, of the word “whistleblower”, and a promise of justice. Not his own but for the man this monster used to be. For the countless others sacrificed in its name.

The face is gone and suddenly there are even more appendages grabbing at him. Too many to be human. Black tendrils wrapping around his arms and legs, pulling him from the wall but keeping him suspended. More ephemeral extremities grip his grimy, blood stained clothes. Rips each piece from its seams until he's nude yet again.

“No. No. Nonono-” Waylon pleads, trying to thrash away.

He hardly budges so he keeps begging. Sobbing. Screaming that he's sorry. Screaming that he'll make it right. Please, please let him go.

One of the tendrils shoves into his mouth, hard and heavy. Surprisingly solid for something that looks so intangible. Waylon feels it depress his tongue, leaving an acrid taste, like oil and burning electrical wire and tar. It slides into the back of his throat and further still. He gags around it but can't vomit because the pressure is so tight and deep. It clogs his sinuses and he cant breathe. He spasms, twitching, feeling a pressure building in his head as his brain starts to lose oxygen. Black spots in his vision.

The appendage moves back minimally, enough for him to draw in panicked breaths through his nose. Relief is minimal, because another is forcing his legs open so wide his hips catch and cramp. Another lifts one of his legs and Waylon screams against the one in his throat as his femur pops out of its socket. Yet another tendril, more massive than the one in his throat suddenly shoves itself into his ass, pushing past all his natural resistances, filling him hard, fast, and painfully. Tearing into him. He feels his insides breaking, tearing open. Hot, wet blood coating the ghostly tentacle and dripping out to splat meters below on the floor. It fucks into him, back and forth, fast and mechanical. Waylon doesn't have the energy anymore to scream so he cries. Sobbing in stifling uneven breaths, pained, soaking tears and snot.

The thick tendril in his ass suddenly shoves in deeper. Too deep, too far. Waylon feels something pop inside him. Then many other things. Organs, torn through and mangled inside him. The pain so sharp and searing it makes the pulse in his ears sound like a high pitched ringing. He can feel it sliding along the inside of his abdomen. Looks down through his tears and sees it moving there, a large lump wriggling under his skin.

Suddenly his vision starts to fade. In and out. He's dizzy and tired and so full of pain. It radiates from him. He's full of agony. Can't take any more. All of his systems are shutting down.

He deserves this, doesn't he?

Yes.

The two appendages filling him meet at his heart. Once racing with the will to live now barely able to pump what little blood he has left. They wrap around his arteries and chambers and pull. Tearing it apart in his chest. Yanking the parts out of his orifices, a flood of blood following in their wake. Spilling like a waterfall from his mouth and between his legs.

Waylon is lucky he's already dead by the time the ghost drops him to the floor.

 


	29. Omorashi (Miles)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omorashi is essentially a kink about holding your pee or watching someone else struggle to hold it until they wet themselves. So, you know, if watersports ain't your thing you may wanna skip this one.

Though Miles wakes in a daze, not sure how long he's been strapped to the chair, he knows it's been hours. His joints are stiff and aching. His ass feels numb. He tries to stretch to relieve some of the tension but that sick fuck Trager has him strapped in so tight he can't budge. To top it off he really has to piss. Great, just fucking great.

He knows struggling is useless, but he tries anyway. The pumping adrenaline from before has given way to a regular buzz of anxiety. Senses heightened, though there is nothing immediately threatening him besides the idea of where he is. In fact, this area is so quiet the silence itself is menacing. He's too used to having crazed fucks grabbing him, throwing him around, nearly eviscerating him at every turn.

Yeah, this tension is not helping the bladder problem at all. He tries to shift, hoping to alleviate some of the pressure, but still can't. How long was he out? When was the last time he drank something? He hasn't exactly had time to piss in between sprinting and sneaking for his life.

Miles grits his teeth. There is really so many more important things he needs to focus on now. He needs to find a way out of here while he can. Before that fucking “doctor” comes back to do whatever sick bullshit he has planned. Miles has sympathy for many of the psychopaths Murkoff twisted to their own ends, but Trager is one Miles wouldn't mind getting ripped to pieces.

But _fuck_ he has to go so bad. He seethes, screwing his eyes shut, trying to hold it off. He did not survive this long to piss himself like a fucking baby. Especially when he's not even getting mauled or chased by someone who looks like they tried to get intimate with the business end of a meat grinder.

It hurts. Fuck. A tight bloated pressure between his hips. Bladder aching so bad it feels like it's going to pop. So full he actually feels sick. Feels heat crawling through him like a fever. He curls his fingers and toes, squeezing them tight, hoping that it will not be so bad if he just waits. Or maybe he'll just get used to it. All he needs is to break out of the chair and he can go. It's gonna feel so good to piss all over Trager's sick little tools on the table in front of him, petty and fruitless an idea as that is.

His breath hitches, panting from the strain of holding back. He's so hot, flushed from the effort and the ill feeling it gives him. He wants to go so bad. He shakes his head back and forth violently, cursing.

He can't take it anymore.

Finally, his body gives up and he starts to piss. It comes rushing out like a flood, soaking hot and wet into his jeans. Miles lets out the most pathetic fucking sob as the relief washes through him. He shakes from it, feeling his piss soak all the way down to his knees and drip down his calves into his shoes.

He stays still a few more moments, breathless and warm. Full of anger and shame, but at least his mind is clear now. At least he can focus.

Suddenly the door swings open.

“Well, well, well...”


	30. Toys (Chris/Miles)

Chris can't believe what he's looking at. Well, he kind of can, if only because he's so used to the kinds of debauchery Miles gets up to. Nobody else he's ever known thinks it's okay to just send pictures of sex toys in the middle of the day. But there it is, in all it's sparkling purple glory. Some monstrosity of a vibrator. The box says it's called “The Dominator”. Good lord.

Good thing he's at home and not out in public. He's sure Miles would feel only a little sorry if he was. His phone shrills with a text, asking what he thinks about it. Chris doesn't even have time to answer before Miles is calling. He can't even utter a standard greeting before Miles starts talking.

“Is it too flashy? I love the name. Oh, this one is called the “Candy Cane”. Shit, even the sex shops are getting the Christmas shit out already,” Miles rambles.

“Miles,” Chris sighs, “What are you doing?”

“Shopping. Obviously.” Miles replies and Chris can hear him rummaging through something. “Hey, do you think the clearance bin at Moan-N-Groan can be trusted?”

Chris rubs his temple, feeling like he's suddenly growing a headache. But he's also smiling because, as ridiculous as this is, at least it's far more entertaining than the repeat episode of Ancient Aliens he was watching. Dating Miles has ensured his life rarely has a dull moment. (Though not that long ago it wasn't dull either, but this is far more enjoyable regardless of how embarrassing.)

“Why are you shopping for dildos?” Chris asks quietly, as if someone could hear even though he's alone.

“Not strictly limited to dildos here.” Miles says. “How do you feel about prostate massagers?”

“Why are you asking me this?” Chris is now rubbing his entire palm over his face.

“Well,” Miles's voice takes on a sing-song quality, “It's for you.”

Chris suddenly goes still, a heavy feeling thudding into his stomach. “What?”

“What?” Says Miles. “I thought we talked about it. I mean...”

They had, several times in fact. Since they had gotten together Miles had been strictly, er, _receiving_. Not that he'd complained. Miles fully and very vocally enjoyed taking everything Chris could give him. Miles was amazing at it. Chris always felt so in awe of how Miles looked, how pleasured and flushed and fully engrossed in pleasure he seemed. It frankly did a lot to stoke Chris's ego.

Chris had never been on that end of a sexual relationship. It was never something that came up. Even if he afforded to imagine it, it just didn't seem logistical. Seeing how much Miles enjoyed it, however, made it come up a couple of times. Miles never pressured it, but did tell Chris, in probably too much detail, precisely why he enjoyed getting fucked.

A week ago Chris finally admitted he sort of wanted to try it. Miles said he'd be so willing to help him explore that particular desire. Said he'd make sure to make it as enjoyable as he could.

That, ostensibly, is what lead to this conversation.

“Did you change your mind?” Miles asks after the silence stretches on Chris's end.

He doesn't sound disappointed or anything. Just a question, like he's at the grocery store asking Chris if he needs eggs. Chris knows he could say yes and Miles would drop it and not think any less of him. That it wouldn't impact their relationship at all.

But Chris hasn't changed his mind. The thick electric feeling that sends fire into his limbs is evidence of that. He's nervous, but still curious. And he trusts Miles, silly as he is window shopping for toys at the moment. Trusting him is probably the most convincing aspect of the whole thing.

“No,” Chris replies after clearing his throat. “I... I still want to.”

“Okay!” Miles says excitedly. “I'll see you soon.”

Miles hangs up and Chris stares at the call log silently until the back-light timed out. He replays the conversation in his head, almost unbelieving. A hot twisting feeling inside his throat when he relizes Miles was serious and this was going to happen. Chris tries to swallow it. It won't go away. He suddenly jumps up, rushing off to take a shower for both distraction and preparation's sake.

Later, when Miles gets home, Chris finds himself sitting on their bed in a towel and doing absolutely everything he can to not look at the surprisingly discreet paper bag on the dresser. God, this was a terrible idea, he thinks. He's already nervous as hell and his face feels warm.

It's dumb. They're both grown adults in a relationship. He shouldn't be this anxious about something they've consensually agreed to. But he's suddenly so full of doubt and concern, most probably blown out of proportion, though knowing that does little to put him at ease.

Miles always senses these sorts of things, these times when Chris is feeling off and out-of-place. Usually it's in a public place and he's self-conscious of his scars or size, but the pang of anxiety is familiar here too. He's picked up on it, Chris knows, watching Miles cross the bedroom to stand in front of him. Feels him slide his palms over either side of his jaw and smile.

“We don't have to...” Miles says, gentle and warm.

Chris shakes his head. “I want to I'm just...”

He sighs and rests his hands on Miles's hips, squeezing gently. It's embarrassing that he feels embarrassed, how screwed up is that? He knows he's acting ridiculous. He's not some virginal teenager. But it's a mixture of excitement and worry. Excitement because he's trying a new thing with Miles, who he loves and trusts. Worry that he's not going to like it, that he's going to ruin it somehow.

Miles leans in and kisses him, slow and soft, hushing those intrusive thoughts for the moment. Nudges a leg between Chris's, pushing his body closer. Rocking his hip and knee seductively, putting pressure on all the right places.

Chris runs his hands over Miles's sides, feeling how lithe he is in comparison. Not fragile, no one could ever accuse Miles of that after what he'd been through, but still small compared to Chris. Fit and attractive. Miles could have anyone he wants, at least Chris thinks so, and the fact he's chosen Chris after everything still leaves him feeling so bewildered and appreciated.

Makes Chris think he could do anything, even something like this.

When they part Chris asks, nervously, if he should lay down or something. Miles grins warmly and instructs him to take off the towel and lay on his stomach. To bend over the bed with his knees on the floor. Chris feels his breathing hitch then, pulse spiking and feeling like a small inferno in his chest. But he does as he's told, burying his face in his arms.

He feels so exposed in a way he never has before. Even vulnerable, if anyone could believe a guy his size could feel that way. He's already half hard from the way Miles had rubbed against him. When he hears Miles grabbing the bag off the dresser, he tenses.

Miles rubs a hand over his shoulder. Chris feels him drop the bag on the floor next to his leg. The other hand joins to rub at his shoulders. Miles leans in to kiss his cheek. He whispers in Chris's ear that they can stop anytime, all he has to do is say so. Chris nods, but doesn't tell him to stop, because he still, still, wants to try.

“Try to relax.” Miles says, pressing kisses against his neck and trailing down his shoulder blade.

Chris feels Miles tracing his fingers down his spine, distinctively familiar with their missing spaces. Chris steadies his breathing, forcing his muscles to unwind. Remembering how Miles always went all loose and comfortable when Chris prepared him. How pliable he was to everything Chris wanted to do to him. And, oh, that's an enticing image his mind supplies, thinking again of how much Miles enjoyed getting fucked by him.

Miles is behind him and it sounds like he's fetching something from the bag. Chris tilts his head to listen closer and recognizes the sound of a bottle of lubricant being opened. It makes him shiver before Miles even touches him.

And when Miles _does_ touch him it makes him go breathless. He's trying not to tense up but it's hard feeling a lubricated finger drawing a small circuit against his hole. Even harder when he feels it slip in, slow. His brow furrows at the intrusion. It's not exactly painful, but not comfortable. Different. He feels Miles kissing and sucking and biting gingerly at his back and chooses to focus on that instead of the finger working inside him.

When it's finally in and Miles has his palm pressed against his ass, Chris takes a deep breath. Tries to adjust. He already feels unusually full, he can't imagine what a toy is going to feel like in there, let alone a cock. How does _Miles_ even take all of him?

Miles crooks his finger just a little when he goes to draw the finger back and _oh_. Okay, that feels good. Like really good. Makes a hot current jump in all directions. Makes him go all weak in the knees which is probably why Miles had him bend over like this in the first place. Chris makes a short gasping noise and feels Miles grin against his skin.

Miles repeats the motion again and again. Each time sending little ripples of pleasure radiating between Chris's legs. Making his dick grow harder and harder with each little thrust and curved pull back. Chris finds himself rocking back into it, especially when Miles adds a second digit to the fray.

After a few minutes Miles removes his fingers. Chris hears him rummaging through the bag, pulling open a box and the crinkling some plastic. The bed shifts when Miles leans forward, bringing one of the toys into Chris's view. Some twisted black thing, unlike what he'd imagine the typical sex toy to look like. It looks alien, very unlike something cock-shaped.

“This,” Miles explains with a crooked smile, “Is a prostate massager. I'm going to fuck you with it.”

Chris feels his heart bottom out and drop heavily into his gut. “Oh, okay.”

Miles looks so happy and kisses him, deep and fast, before disappearing behind him again. When Chris feels it it's obvious Miles has coated it very generously with lubricant. Once it presses past his entrance it slides in relatively easily. Still tight, though. A little bit more painful but not excessively so. It's the odd sensation of being stretched that assaults his senses more than anything.

The odd curves and ridges of the toy do wonders for turning that feeling into something more enticing. Brushing against him. Rubbing precisely those most sensitive spots. Miles leaves it inside him for a bit before he surprises Chris by turning it on. It bursts to life, vibrating against his prostate. It makes Chris jerk, and Miles chuckles a little.

“You like that? Feels good right?” Miles says, obviously enjoying his role. “I can't fucking _wait_ to make you fall apart.”

Chris writhes a bit at those words, then gasps when he feels the toy move inside him. “Better... Better get to it then.”

Miles pauses, if only for a second. “God, I fucking love you.”

Then he grabs the toy by the curved handle at the base and pulls, making it slide out until just the bulbous tip is still inside. Chris barely has time to anticipate before Miles pushes it back in, the buzzing length of it filling Chris with heated sparks. Makes him arch for it, spreading his legs a little more, digging his large hands into the blanket he's laying on.

Miles does begin fucking him with it. Slow at first but building momentum. Hard and fast, drawing out shameful noises with every wave of heat it forces up his spine and into his cock. Miles keeps talking, panting too, telling Chris how hot he looks. How hard Chris makes him. How badly he wants to fuck him with his cock.

Chris loses all of his earlier embarrassment, fully enjoying the sensation of Miles opening him up. Rocking back against the toy, wanting it deeper, harder. Miles turns up the vibration and Chris curses as he twists and thrusts it into him. Breaking down all his aversions.

By the time Miles yanks it out and shoves his cock into him, Chris is so hyperaware of every sensation he's surprised he doesn't cum on the spot. Especially with the way Miles sets to fucking him, snapping his hips forward so hard they make the whole bed shake.

They sound so obscene, between the sounds of skin on skin and the noises crawling from their throats. Miles is a mess of filthy words, telling Chris how good he feels. How bad he's wanted to do this. Encouraging Chris to join the chorus of depravity he's personally conducting.

Chris reaches down to stroke his cock and it's not long before he's cumming, shooting against the side of the bed. His cum barely has time to soak into the linens before Miles follows after, shoving in as tight as he can and filling Chris. Miles's grip on Chris's wide hips is bruising. Nails digging so tight Chris wouldn't be surprised if they left eight dark little crescents in his skin.

They stay locked for a moment until Miles pulls out. Even then he stays, lowering himself so his sweaty chest is pressed to Chris's back, hands leaving his hips so his arms can wrap around him. In the first minutes of the comedown that's nice, rather sweet and cuddly. But after a while the position grows uncomfortable. Chris's knees are definitely starting to ache.

“Alright, end of the line,” Chris teases. “All passengers disembark.”

Miles snorts out a laugh, pressing a kiss between Chris's shoulder blades before peeling himself away. Chris gets to his feet, wincing just a bit at the ache in his knees and the soreness in his ass. He's definitely going to need another shower.

On the floor, Miles is kneeling over the shopping bag, pulling out package after package of increasingly stranger and more ridiculous toys.

“Just how much 'fun' were you planning to get up to tonight?” Chris asks, rather astonished.

“As much as you can handle, duh.” Miles grins. “Don't worry, the more _adventurous_ ones are for me.”

Chris shakes his head, laughs, and grabs Miles up, pulling him into a kiss.

Truly, there's never a chance for a dull moment with Miles in his life.

He'd have it no other way.


	31. Outdoors (Miles/Waylon)

Waylon sighed, heavy and pronounced. Intentional, to get Miles's attention, or at least make him feel just a little bad. Just a little, because it really was sort of his fault they were currently lost; stuck on the side of the road somewhere near the border of Tennessee and Alabama. A crinkled paper map fluttered in the warm Summer breeze and Miles clutched it tighter. His furrowed brow sprouted tiny droplets of sweat and he looked just so ridiculous, like an out-of-place time traveler from the 80's.

“You know-” Waylon started a suggestion Miles wouldn't let him continue.

“Don't.”

“But-” Waylon tried anyway, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone. “Google Maps.”

“You promised, shitbird.” Miles didn't look away from the map, squinting determinedly to find whichever little haunted spot his outdated guidebooks told him was 'probably definitely haunted maybe'.

“ _GPS._ ” Said Waylon, tauntingly waving his sorely neglected smartphone in front of his nose. “Voice-activated direction software~”

“You're gonna voice-activate my foot up your ass.” Miles said, but he was smiling and Waylon knew he'd already won then.

“Look, your attempt at 'roughing it' really is admirable...” Waylon replied sweetly, stepping close and maybe pressing a hip against Miles on purpose. “But... well... We oughta get to camp before sundown right? You know... For ghosts and stuff...”

Smooth, Waylon thought about the way his voice just trembled so slightly delivering that line. One would think after all this time he wouldn't be so nervous about the open-flirting thing; Miles had done it so easily for so long. Miles gave him an amused look, the one he always got when Waylon tried to match his slick innuendo-laden chatting up and failed.

“If you wanna fuck that bad you can just say so, cupcake.” Miles teased as he rolled up the map, swung back, and smacked it right across Waylon's ass as he headed back to the driver's side.

Waylon's face was so red he covered it with his hand in a useless attempt to hide his shame. “Oh my god.”

Miles did finally give in to Waylon's demands for technological assistance, albeit with several ineffectual insults. With the exact coordinates programmed, it only took about half an hour to reach their destination. (Waylon tried very hard not to rub that in too much.)

It was a heavily forested area, far off any main highway. The road quickly became a single lane, and then unimproved dirt. There was a slight worry Miles's old SUV could navigate the path, but he pushed it through until they finally met the right clearing next to a thread of a creek.

The books called it Crybaby Creek; one of hundreds of supposedly haunted places with a similar name. The legend for this particular one surrounded a string of missing persons, all who supposedly stopped to camp at this particular spot in the woods before they disappeared. All were women, who seemingly just up and walked away from camp never to be seen again, not leaving a single sign of struggle or scrap of evidence. Years later, people began reporting sounds of crying in the area, though none were able to trace them to a source.

All in all, not too different a story from many others written of across the nation. Hardly a unique legend, and Waylon was certain it had a logical conclusion. Miles insisted they spend their weekend on this specific case, however. Waylon stopped asking why Miles chose the cases he did. Besides, the more uneventful ones lead to more opportunities to 'entertain themselves', and Waylon certainly wasn't going to complain about that.

They went about setting up camp. Waylon straightened up the firepit left by numerous other campers while Miles set to pulling the small pop-up tent from the trunk. He walked to the edge of the camp to gather twigs and branches for the fire. The setting sun cast slotted gold rays through the trees, so picturesque combined with the twittering birds and babbling creek and breeze shuffling through branches and leaves. Peaceful and perfect, exactly how he hoped the weekend would be.

He wondered then, for a moment, if those missing girls felt the same way before they disappeared. If they indeed existed at all...

A loud snapping sound, a footstep on a stick, made Waylon jump and nearly drop his bundle of wood into the creek. A pair of arms wrapped roughly around his waist and his pulse shot sharply into his throat when they pulled him roughly backwards. He tensed and writhed, seconds from letting out a scream...

“Hey baby, wanna get a fire started? Cos I got all the wood you need~” Miles said against his ear.

“Ugh...” Waylon groaned loudly, all fear replaced with aggravation as he rolled his eyes. “Don't sneak up on me like that, asshole.”

“Scared?” Mile's grinned against his skin, his arms unwrapping to let his hands slide over Waylon's hips, pressing his own against Waylon's backside.

“Aren't you supposed to be looking for ghosts?” Waylon replied, desperately trying to pretend he was still angry and totally not turning to butter in Miles hands like he _always_ did.

“I believe there was a 'and stuff' involved.” Miles's mouth was on Waylon's neck, hot and warm as he spoke. “I could totally skip to the 'stuffing'.”

“Oh my god, Miles.” Waylon complained, red-faced again and laughing.

“What? You don't wanna play 'Turkey Dinner'?” Miles own laughter vibrated warmly against Waylon's neck. “I'll be the housewife and you'll be the bird...”

“Miles!” Waylon practically giggled as he finally managed to twist out of Miles's hold, a few sticks falling out of his arms. “Why are you like this?”

“Would you have me any other way?” Asked Miles, grinning as he picked up the sticks and followed Waylon to the firepit.

No he wouldn't, thought Waylon, sure Miles already knew the answer himself. He couldn't even imagine him being different; this frenetic moth to the gentle, flickering flame of his heart. God, that was so cheesy but so, so true and Waylon vowed no one could ever know that Miles Upshur of all people could inspire such glurge to spill from his brain.

The fire was finally started and Waylon sat upon a large, weathered log nearby to keep warm. Miles was busy setting up various pieces of overpriced “ghost hunting” equipment he bought online and never read the manuals for. Waylon was almost sure Miles didn't actually believe in all of this. But he indulged him all the same, wondering if this was all some huge prank just to see how far he'd go to make Miles happy. (Tremendously far, as it turned out.)

Miles finished setting his video camera on a tripod, pointing at the woods beyond the fire somewhere. He walked back to the pit, choosing to sit on the other end of Waylon's log, straddling it and facing him. He carried a small black box, a voice recorder, which he sat on the wood between them.

“Alright, Giblets-N-Gravy, ready to investigate?” He asked, beaming at Waylon.

“Sure thing, uh... Chicken Wing?” Waylon shrugged, not as skilled in the art of annoying pet names.

“That was so fuckin' lame, Jesus Christ. The spirits are severely disappointed.” Said Miles.

“How do you know? You just started recording.”

“I'm actually super clairvoyant and shit.”

“No. You're not...”

“How the hell would you know?”

“Miles, it took you an hour to read a map to get here. Which you actually never figured out anyway. Also, this morning you put salt on your Corn Flakes instead of sugar. Oh! And remember when you-”

“The spirits are getting super annoyed by your negative attitude.”

Waylon threw his arms up in the universal sign for 'Goddamnit Miles's. He sighed, but it was punctuated by a smile. Because Miles, who spent years on a degree in journalism, decided to spend his vacation days puttering around the rural back-country looking for ghosts he probably didn't even believe in. And Waylon, for all his doubting and mild annoyances, couldn't help but feel a bit honored that Miles wanted to bring him along.

So he watched as Miles sat in the firelight, bugs flittering around him, eyes closed and head tilted back. He actually looked a little serene like that; breath rising and falling gently. If he didn't know better, Waylon could mistake it for meditation. That is until Miles started asking the cool, empty air the _stupidest_ questions.

“So, can ghosts still bang?”

“Seriously?” Waylon groaned, rubbing at his temple.

“Shh, rude-ass.” Miles opened one eye to glare at him. “I'm communing with the spirits here.”

“There has to be like a thousand more important things you could be asking...” Waylon rolled his eyes. (An act he did so much he was surprised his ocular nerves weren't permanently damaged.)

“What's more important than knowing if your dick still works in the afterlife? It'll be a long eternity if you can't even jerk off now and then.” Said Miles.

“I seriously don't wanna think about ghosts masturbating everywhere...” Waylon pulled a sickened expression.

“Okay smart-ass, Mr. Ghost Expert, _you_ talk to them.” Miles replied dramatically, crossing his arms and glaring.

“No thanks.” Said Waylon, but Miles moved the voice recorder closer to him, staring expectantly, and Waylon knew his man-baby best friend wouldn't take the refusal without a drawn-out, whiny fight. “Oh fine...”

Waylon sighed and turned to better face the recorder on the log. He really never knew what to say during these so-called 'EVP sessions'. Miles was the one who looked through the books and all. The most he ever did was look at the pictures and laugh about how obviously staged they were.

“So, uh-”

“You gotta close your eyes.” Miles already interrupted. “Get in the mood, for fucksake, what are you an amateur?”

“That's exactly what I am, dumbass.” Waylon huffed, but did as Miles requested.

He closed his eyes and tilted his head back slightly, mimicking the position Miles held earlier. Breathing in and out steadily. He doubted it had any way of connecting him to 'spirits', but it was relaxing all the same.

“So,” Waylon began again, “Any, uh, ghosts around?...”

Miles made a noise like he was holding back a laugh. Waylon kicked out a leg in the vague direction of Miles's shin and delighted when he heard the other man curse painfully.

“What's it like being, you know, dead 'n' stuff?” Waylon continued. “It's gotta suck, right?...”

It was quiet, save for the fire crackling nearby. Miles was impressively holding back any giggling or sneering for now. Waylon still felt awkward, silly, but pressed on.

“If anyone _is_ here, give us a sign or something... Maybe... If you wanna I guess...”

A sudden warmth against his face, a breath, so close. Lips so light against his...

“You're so bad at this.” Teased Miles, before pressing closer, pulling Waylon entirely into a kiss.

Waylon didn't resist at all. His hands went to Miles's shoulders, then slid to the back of his neck, keeping him close as they kissed. Miles slid forward, closer. Vaguely, Waylon was mindful of the recorder sitting between them, then decided he really didn't care what happened to it. Especially not when Miles was sliding his hands up his thighs and squeezing his hips.

“But I'm _so good_ at other things.” Whispered Waylon in the breaths between kisses.

Miles grinned against his mouth, teeth easily brushing and nipping at Waylon's bottom lip. “Oh, I know.”

For an anticipatory moment, Waylon wondered if Miles planned to lay him down on the fallen log and fuck him right there. Because he so would, he knew it, and Waylon was nearly ready to let him, logistics of it be damned. Luckily, Miles dragged him up and away, leading him love-drunk towards the tent he set up earlier. Inside there was a single sleeping mat spread on the floor, with one sleeping bag fully unzipped and laid across it like a single bed.

“Well, someone was confident he was getting laid tonight.” Waylon teased, looking over his shoulder as he crawled in.

“Excuse me, you practically used Google Maps to find the fastest route to my dick today.” Miles laughed, barely zipping up the door of the tent before yanking Waylon over into his lap, facing him.

Well, he technically wasn't wrong. And then Miles had his tongue and teeth at his neck and hands grabbing his ass through his jeans and Waylon decided he didn't care whose 'fault' it was how they got there.

Miles was wearing far more layers than Waylon, so of course it was only fair that he helped him catch up. Waylon had been practically sweating in the southern heat earlier, and here Miles was bundled up like he was gonna be the first man to fuck another man in Antarctica. (An actual, honest-to-god scenario Miles kept him up until 2AM discussing once.)

So Waylon couldn't help the small amused smile as he peeled off three completely unnecessary layers of clothing to get to that warm tan skin underneath. Miles asked what was so funny and Waylon just shrugged and grinned and simply replied: “You.”.

Miles retaliated by pulling Waylon forward, holding the back of his neck tightly so he could ravage his throat. The combination of sharp teeth and scratchy beard sent a rush of fire across Waylon's skin. He actually flinched; such a sensitive feeling. Miles dragged his tongue – hot, wet, and promising obscenity – up along that same spot and Waylon shivered again.

He pulled Waylon’s tee up over his head with all the care of a frugal mother trying to preserve the Christmas wrapping. In this, only in this, was Miles so careful. And that was funny, Waylon thought as Miles’s mouth wandered an aimless trail across his chest, because he wouldn’t mind being completely undone by him. Thrown down and fucked open until every burning nerve in his body crackled uncontrollably. Taken apart, because he trusted Miles would always, _always_ , put him back together again.

God, he thought as his dick pressed so tight in his jeans already, he sort of wished he had the courage to tell Miles he wanted that so badly. He'd certainly deliver. Waylon felt a fever crawl up from within him, splashing a pink heat across his face.

“Fuck, Way...” Said Miles, his voice an indulgent rumble vibrating down his sternum.

Waylon could imagine him grinning, could feel his breath splitting through his teeth to cool the wet saliva he left there. Fingers against his jeans, tracing the outline of his embarrassingly hard cock. Miles laughed, not cruelly, a light airy thing. Miles always laughed and Waylon figured it was actually a tic, something he did when he couldn't think of anything to say.

Taking the words out of that dirty mouth made Waylon feel like just the luckiest thief.

Waylon grabbed his face, pulling him up into a kiss, slow and hot and wanting. He rolled his hips against Miles's hand. One of his own soon reach down to cover Miles's, putting more pressure until the friction almost hurt. Waylon practically hummed into Miles’s mouth, breath shaking, face and ears and even his shoulders feeling so feverish.

He wanted to find the words himself, but the thought died when Miles grabbed him by the hips and tilted them over. Waylon landed sprawled across the mat on the floor of the tent. He barely had time to see Miles crawl over him, could barely see with the only light being the fire outside anyway.

Miles wasn't as gentle about taking off Waylon's jeans and underpants; the fact he even fought that impatient side of him was admirable. Hands slid unbidden along his nude legs, not having to press much to get them open because Waylon was ready for Miles to do anything to him hours ago. Because for all the teasing and embarrassment he may have felt, Waylon knew he'd let Miles have him whenever he wanted.

He watched Miles lean down, pulling Waylon by the hips so his ass rested in his lap. Bending so he could lick and suck and tease Waylon's cock. Sliding the tip of his tongue over the slit of his cockhead and pulling away with a clear string of precum. Meeting Waylon's overheated stare with his own. Any more of that and Waylon feared he wouldn't last long at all.

Waylon reached to Miles's head, brushing his fingers through his dark hair. Gripping it, not too much he hoped, but tight enough to pull Miles forward, bending over him for another kiss. Waylon could taste himself already on Miles's tongue. When they parted Waylon licked his lips and told Miles to fuck him already. Miles grinned and rolled his hips forward, promising.

He wasn't sure where Miles got the lubricant; probably had it stored somewhere nearby because he was so sure they would end up like this. Waylon didn't complain, not that he had the breath to, between Miles fucking him open with his fingers and then his cock. Waylon tried not to make too much noise. He was acutely aware that they were outdoors. And while they didn't see any other campers on the way in, that didn't mean there was nobody else around.

Miles, on the other hand, had no such qualms about common decency or shame. Didn't try to lower his voice as he told Waylon how good he felt. It made Waylon feel hotter, more wanting. Made him make desperate sounds as he wrapped his legs tight around Miles, angling his hips so he could feel him deeper and harder.

Neither of them were quiet by the end. Miles never is, panting and cursing when he came, barely thinking to pull out. Waylon shivered when he felt Miles shoot his cum all up his stomach, some of it even reaching his chest. He groaned heatedly when he felt it rolling down his sides. Miles hardly had the time to recover before he was spreading more lube over his palm and taking Waylon's cock in his hand. It didn't take much, Waylon was already a wreck of sensations. He came fast and hard, his own cum going to mix with Miles's on his belly.

After Miles used his own discarded shirt to lazily clean them up, he laid down next to Waylon. Pulled him into his arms so Waylon's head rested on his shoulder, the rest of him pressed tight. They were still breathless and warm. The night air wasn't too cool, so neither bothered to throw a blanket on. Just laid there together, skin-on-skin, enjoying the feeling of being so close.

Waylon fell asleep fast to the sound of Miles breathing and the crackling of the waning fire outside. When he woke again the sun was filtering through the material of the tent. It hurt his eyes a little at first. Blinking through it, he rolled over, searching for Miles but not to surprised that he wasn't there. Waylon stayed laying down for a few more minutes before he felt awake enough to get dressed and climb out.

The fire was out completely by now and Waylon thought they should count themselves lucky it stayed contained. He walked around the campsite for a minute or so. When he didn't immediately find Miles he called for him. No response. He frowned, but wasn't so concerned at first. Still, he checked the car and the tree line, calling out his name. When 15 minutes passed without reply, Waylon started to feel nervous.

“This isn't funny, asshole!” Waylon shouted, recalling how Miles had scared him the day before.

But there was no reply. No familiar arms grabbing him. No familiar voice at his ear saying “gotcha” and whirling him around for a kiss. The woods were oppressively silent. Waylon panicked.

He ran to the car and grabbed his phone, something ultimately fruitless because he couldn't find a signal. As he walked around trying to get at least a single bar, he nearly fell over when he tripped over something. Looking, he saw it was Miles's camera. It was far from where he'd left it.

Waylon grabbed it up and flipped open the view screen, hoping somehow it caught something. Anything. It was dead, so he grabbed fresh batteries from the car before rewinding the recording and sitting on a log. Hours flew back on the timer of nothing but the darkened campsite. Then suddenly a flash of darkness. Waylon almost missed it.

When he played it back it showed Miles exiting the tent in the middle of the night. The fire was still burning. Waylon watched him pick up a bucket of sand from nearby to put it out. Nothing seemed strange at first. And then, completely without warning, a massive figure came into frame. A man, grabbing Miles from behind, clamping a hand over his mouth and wrapping another arm around his stomach.

Waylon felt sick as he watched Miles struggle on the tiny screen. Felt his stomach twist when Miles kicked and thrashed. The man dragged him closer to the camera and in the struggle Miles must have knocked the camera. The picture spun and landed in the dirt. Half of the recording was obscured by leaves, but managed to catch more of the attack. The moment Miles no longer struggled but went entirely, sickeningly limp. Waylon couldn't tell what exactly happened but felt the sinking dread that it was the worst.

And then, as the man was dragging Miles out of frame, Waylon felt something tight suddenly wrap around his mouth from behind. He let out a strangled scream against the foul-smelling cloth. His head was wrenched back. Looking up, wide-eyed and pulse rocketing, he saw the man, the one who attacked Miles. Whatever was in the cloth, it made him feel dizzy, weak.

“Don't worry, darling, I'm here now.” The man said with a grin.

Waylon felt his senses leaving him, though he still tried so hard to scream down to his very last breath.

“You're lucky I saved you from that disgusting man. Don't worry, I've hid the body very well.” The attacker said, and Waylon could feel him brush a hand against his cheek as he faded away. “Now you and I can be together, isn't that grand?”

Waylon's last panicked thought was a hope that he'd never wake back up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THAT'S ALL FOLKS!
> 
> Hope y'all enjoyed the last chapter. It's by far the longest. It's also an idea I've played with a while and figured it was perfect for Halloween, hehe. (I also may continue it into a full-fledged fic sometime.)
> 
> Thanks to everyone who was so encouraging through this whole thing. Your comments really helped me keep going. I've never actually completed one of these challenges before!
> 
> Hope you guys had fun! Thanks again!


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